


I'll Have My Pound of Flesh Rare

by Tosa



Series: Pound of Flesh [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Character Death, F/M, Hallucinations, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Misgendering, Sexism, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tosa/pseuds/Tosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, in a land riddled with war, there was a young man who strove to lead his fellow Dersites to freedom. This young man, a prince of the people, seemed destined to become one of the greatest heroes in history.<br/>But then a demon stole the would-be prince and put him in a tower, to be locked away for the rest of his life.</p><p>All archived warnings apply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ethos Makes Her Entrance

**Author's Note:**

> I think that part of the fun of a canon like Homestuck, with so many characters and absurd situations, with so many intricate worlds and so many different interconnecting themes, is testing the seemingly nonexistent limits. I love the characters in Homestuck. I love the broad world Hussie has built - and I want to create something new and creative with what many options have been offered me! With such a broad canon, why limit myself to the same popular pairings, the same high school AUs I used to stick to?  
> For all of its melodrama, its absurdity - both in scenarios the characters face and those characters who interact, despite never crossing paths in canon – I think you'll find my fic is tied too intimately with the canon for me to ever be able to successfully shave the serials off and 50 Shades of Gray this bitch. So I present to you, readers, my baby. I've been working on this fucker for months. I hope you like it, despite the weird pairings.

When I was young, there were all these stories – you've no doubt heard them, too – that were meant to keep kids out of the woods, and from talking to strangers, from eating food proffered by such strangers... to keep them alive long enough to reproduce themselves, basically. But the thing is, I never, and no other little boy I knew, either, ever thought those stories were for me. Us. Boys.

In a way, they never were for them. I knew plenty of guys who crashed through dark forests like they owned the place and came out on the other side alive. I knew plenty of girls who didn't, either because they didn't try in the first place, having taken Little Red close to heart, and... those who did try, who never made it to the other side.

The woods here are a metaphor. 

Of course, just because those stories weren't for some guys doesn't mean they weren't for anybody. I remember shrugging most of them off as girls' stuff when I should've taken heed. Because for me, those stories were eventually going to mean something.

For guys like me, those stories apply. It's not particularly fair, but looking down the snout of a rabid wolf, the regret still manages to gnaw its way through your body and leave a trail of self-blame behind. 

♣

The forest here is not a metaphor – or, well, technically, it is. But it is also a literal forest.

When I come to, I am in – am I still in the forest? It is a blur of green on all sides, and no glimpse of blue breaks through above – perhaps I've been dragged from the clearing, to someplace deeper in the woods? No, the color, it's too bright, too artificial, and I seem to be laying not on sticks and leaves and ants but... a bed. My eyesight adjusts, my short term memory and sense of space and time sharpening with it.

I am in a room. Every plausible surface is painted green. The curtains are green. The bedspread is green. The locks on the windowpanes, green. It's not a nice shade, either, not a leafy color but a blinding lime, penetrating the pupils like needles. My head throbs at the sight of it and I remember the incident in the clearing. I touch my head in search of a wound – there's a lump, but no blood, no scab as far as I can tell. I may not know where I am, but at least I am not unnecessarily injured. That would only hamper my inevitable escape. 

Sitting up slowly, I do inventory of my person and find that while my clothes are intact, my sword and all of my belongings are gone. Immediately, I switch mental tracks and begin cataloguing the contents of the room. The bed is a lavish canopy one. On either side of it is a small set of drawers. Across the room from me is a dramatically carved wardrobe, a dresser, and a tall, hanging mirror with an ornate frame. 

There are no freestanding lamps in the room; the light comes from a chandelier I could perhaps reach if I pulled out the desk chair and stood on that. I get up, careful of my head, to try this, but the chair is bolted to the floor. I look over the desk for stray objects, but there is nothing. The desk overlooks the nearly wall-length window. I can see a garden several stories below. A garden surrounded by green walls. A courtyard.

I am trapped on the fourth floor without a single weapon. With the windows bolted, I can't even commit suicide. Not that I particularly want to. You just never know rock bottom until your skeleton is fractured into a thousand gory angles.

I lean against a bedpost, trying to collect my thoughts. It wobbles and almost falls out under my weight. I catch myself, and turn to inspect the thing when I hear a knock at the door. The knob is jostled. Someone is coming in.

Immediately, my hands wrap around the wobbly bedpost and begin to wrench it out of place. Just as my visitors enter the room, I've managed to tear the decaying thing off the bed entirely, and I wield it as I would a club.

“W-what did you do to the bed!” one of the pair shouts. They, like the house, are an atrocious shade of green. They look vaguely like deformed carapaces, but their color is throwing me off. Deciding escape is more important than discovery of a new species, I don't bother to ask what they are, and glare at them threateningly.

“Why am I here?” I ask. The one who shouted is now flailing his arms nervously. His partner is holding a tray filled with food and tea – how curious – and seems to be struggling with where he can set it down. Neither person aggresses.

Since they both seem to be malfunctioning, I decide to make it easier for them. “I'm not going to spill either of your brains out on the floor, so quit freaking out,” I say to the one flailing. I mainly grabbed the bedpost for my own self-defense, but now that I think about it... “I mean, I _could_ , you know. But I won't, if you tell me why I'm here.”

The flailer lets out a low, pathetic whimper and rushes from the room. At the same time, the tray clatters to the floor and his partner follows him.

I glance at the mess and sigh. I hope I am not here for much longer – that could be my last meal for a long time, wasted on the microscopic organisms living in between the tiles on the floor. 

I start to walk towards the door, to peek out, maybe make a run for it, but already the mutant carapaces are returning with... a very normal carapace in tow. She is black, with nice legs and good taste in clothes, and she looks apathetic to the little one's flailing as she ascends the stairs (and, as I glance around the hall, my suspicions that this place is a gaudy, green, rococo nightmare are confirmed). She looks vaguely familiar to me, but then again, all carapaces tend to look similar. That's not racist of me to say, just so we're clear – it's just that there's only so much visual variation a smooth, bald species with almost no facial features can have. It's supposedly a slur to call carapaces living statues, but really, no description fits better. They look like marble come barely to life. 

She sees me peeking out into the hall and reveals to me an impeccably white Dersite smile, exceedingly sharp and unnerving. It strikes me again as unfair that humans are the only creatures in Derse that don't have such impressive fangs.

“I see you aren't in any hurry to rush out,” she says cheerily. “Good – that means you're careful. You'll survive longer here if you're careful. Should you run out now, you'll miss all the fun, being dead and all that!”

I look at her cautiously and don't say a word. She continues to smile unnervingly as she makes her way to the doorway where I stand. I grip the club harder. 

Her mouth twitches when she sees my weapon. The mutants from earlier cower behind her. “What on Skaia is that?” She cranes her neck to see past me, into the bedroom. “Did you tear the bedpost off the bed? You did! How very clever. Here I thought we'd rid the room of weapons. You _are_ a smart one – that almost ensures you won't be quite so miserable here, and it does give me some piece of mind to know I'll have someone tolerable to talk to. Ingenious people make the _best_ conversation.”

She just keeps on beaming at me, but because she's from Derse, her narrow eyes and shark teeth form less of a smile and more of a leer. “Of course, you'll have to put your cute little weapon down now. It's very smart of you, but – oh, there's a reason you haven't hit me with it yet, isn't there? You know what I'm about to tell you, that we have people here who can break every precious little finger of yours and make you wish you'd never brandished that silly thing in the first place. Come, now, put it down and I won't damage any of your limbs – don't think I won't do it, I casually blinded someone just this morning. Here.”

She holds out her hand to me. The fingers are long and lithe, perfect for throttling me. After some consideration, I place the bedpost in her hand.

“Oh, good.” She hands it to the small, previously flailing mutant. As soon as he has it, he is hurrying down the stairs to put it away somewhere. The bigger mutant, the one who dropped the tray, moves at a flick of the woman's slender hand to clean the mess he made.

The carapace woman puts her arm around my shoulders. “As you can imagine, I'm not the one who brought you here, but I am one of the head proprietors of this mansion. I know everything that goes on in this house because I make it so, maybe not always on my whim alone, but much of the time.” 

Guiding me into the room, she brushes stray blades of grass off my shoulders and chatters into my ear. I don't entirely understand everything she says, but her grip is tight and I can tell, by the cold metal hanging off her hip and pressing into mine and by the dagger-like cigarette holder she is waving in the hand not clutching my shoulder, that she has no qualms about severely injuring me, should I try to fight her off. 

We sit down on the bed together, her still clutching my shoulder, her grip steadily growing more painful. “Good boy. Darling, aren't you? Willing to admit defeat, and obedient in those cases – all good qualities to have during your stay here. Ha, what a casual turn of phrase – as though this is a visit, and you'll eventually be free to leave! No, see, you are most definitely trapped here. Don't fret, though; so am I. So is he, over there. Nobody's really willfully here, just compliant.”

I glance at the mutant swiping up the spill and then at her face, careful to keep my thoughts off mine. “You said you run the household. It doesn't sound as though you're trapped.” 

She throws back her head and laughs wholeheartedly. “Does the housewife own the household, or does she merely run its facilities, head of cooking and cleaning and the like? Being trapped doesn't necessarily mean being physically chained, dear.”

I consider her words. She watches my face for indication that we have an understanding. I nod coolly, and she carries on with her spiel. 

“You're probably wondering who I am, aren't you? Well, no, I shouldn't flatter myself – you may, at minimum, wish for a name, for sheer convenience when you refer back to me, but for the most part, you want to know why you've been brought here. Very well.” She crosses one magnificent leg over the other and, thankfully, releases my sore shoulder. “You may refer to me as 'Snowman.' Misleading title for a Dersite woman, isn't it? I didn't choose it, though, I've merely adopted it for convenience. This,” she sweeps her hand out, cutting the air with her cigarette holder, “is the Felt Mansion. Lovely color, you agree? The eye strain will wear off soon, don't worry. It's named and painted for these fellows, here, see the green man there, he's part of this little group called the 'Felt'. You'll be seeing plenty of them around here, and don't worry, they don't bite. Anyway, this is one of several domains of our master's. It's not the biggest, but it's the most central, and it's his favorite, for a multitude of reasons I don't feel like espousing because they're a terrible waste of time.”

There is a pause. It lasts only a few seconds, and yet in the short time I've known her, it is uncharacteristically long.

I venture to ask the most obvious question. “Who brought me here? _Why_ was I brought here?”

She seems surprised that I've spoken, almost as though she forgot I was here. “You found your voice! Prisoners here aren't usually allowed to have them, but you'll find comfort in using it anyway, I'd imagine. You'll just have to get used to your words making about as much impact as if you hadn't spoken them at all. Where was I in my introductory speech? Oh, who cares, I'll answer your question if only because it's a quick answer and you're probably used to having your voice heeded, and will need to be indulged before you can get used to the considerable lack of importance you'll be having here.” 

None of this talk of voices makes any sense to me. My head spinning, I wish I hadn't given her the club, and had maybe just attacked her regardless of imminent injury. (Not death, though – why would I have been spared if they didn't want me alive?) But I should listen, gather as much information as possible, if only to prepare for my eventual escape.

Snowman doesn't answer my question. She asks another instead. “You asked who bought you here. Does that mean you remember how you got here? Think, tell me, what do you remember?”

I think about it. “...I was in a clearing. And then... I was here.” My head throbs. Actually, I know more than that, I can gather from the fuzzy images dancing at the edges of my consciousness, but I lie because I want more time to recollect before I come to definite conclusions.

She laughs lightly. “You weren't the _only_ one there, were you, though? Fraternizing with a Prospitian – hilarious given your reputation, but you humans have always been more casual about befriending those silly foreigners.”

I start. “Jake!" 

She tilts her head and – she really does look familiar. If I weren't so preoccupied right now, I could be puzzling over who she looks like. “Jake,” she repeats. “Was that his name?”

Her past tense alarms me. “Is he alright?” I ask. “Is he here? Please, tell me if you know-”

“From what I was told, you were the only body recovered today. Your little boyfriend could either be alive and well or bleeding to death in the forest.” She shrugs, as if to say, What can you do?

“Could you find out for me?” I ask, trying not to beg. I reason if I'm alive, it's for a reason – they'll want to please me somewhat, won't they? To keep me cooperative? “It's just a simple request, there's no reason to deny it. Please. You have some authority here, don't you?”

She thinks about it, her cigarette holder tracing the curve of her lip. “Hmm.” She bites the end of it. It suddenly occurs to me that she doesn't even have the thing lit.

“...Perhaps,” she says, finally. “But for now, let's focus on the primary clues, shall we?”

Suddenly, she is smirking at me. “Are you a virgin, by any chance?” 

I give her my darkest of glares, annoyed by this pointless turn in conversation. “I don't see how that's even remotely relevant.”

She grins, all teeth. “Neither was I,” she croons. “In fact, despite his many lectures on female virtue, I don't think the lord of this house has picked up a single virgin yet. Well – aside from Damara. But she was an infant when he kidnapped her, for god's sake.”

I don't bother asking who the girls is she's talking about. None of that matters, because I'll be leaving this place as soon as I can. “Why would you assume I'm not a virgin from an answer as vague as that?”

“What else could you have been doing alone, in the middle of the woods, with a Prospitian boy?” She bites the end of her cigarette holder again, grinning coquettishly (or... no, _wolfishly_ ) at me. “Meeting in secret, were you? Oh, forbidden affairs are the _best_ kind.”

I continue to glare at her. “I don't see what any of this has to do with me being kidnapped.”

“Well, _that_ doesn't, I was just curious as to how fickle the lord of our house has gotten.” She glances over at the mutant cleaning the floor. His face is red with embarrassment. “That's _quite_ clean,thank you.” She says this very loudly, as though he's hard of hearing. “You can _go_ now.”

Mumbling, he nods, gathering up his things, and departs. He shuts the door behind him. Immediately, she turns to me, eye contact firm. “Don't bother running,” she says.

“I wouldn't,” I reply. “We're not done talking yet.”

She smiles close-lipped at me. It feels less threatening than the ones before it. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The clearing. You were with a boy, and then what?”

“And then...” I know exactly what happened. I merely hesitate to say because it seems so ridiculous. I don't want this woman laughing at me. “...Don't you already know what happened?”

“I do,” she confesses. Then, tersely, “Answer the question.”

“...A monster came.”

She doesn't laugh even a little bit. In fact, it looks as though I gave her the right answer. “Yes,” she says. “So your brain _is_ alright, then. That's good. No use keeping you if... but you're fine. You were being so evasive there, you had me worried he'd broken you already!”

She says it as if it's inevitable. A chill runs down my spine. I change the subject, suddenly less intrigued with the reason why I've been brought here. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”

“I don't know. Do you?” She tilts her head at me, smiling coyly. “If it makes you feel any better, I certainly know who _you_ are, and if you're a good Dersite – which, despite, or perhaps because of, your main occupation, you certainly _are –_ you _should_ know who _I_ am. I mean.” Her smile stretches wider. “You did once live in my castle, didn't you, Dirk? Though you were _much_ smaller then, and you weren't fighting any wars, that's for certain.” 

It hits me. The shape of her face, her voice, her – _everything._ What the hell did that blow to the head _damage,_ to make me so slow today?

“You're the former Black Queen,” I whisper. “My family... before they were forced out, when my mother was high seer and my father was in the royal army, we lived in the castle, but I never really saw you.” I shake my head, dumbstruck. “Still, I heard your voice in the halls. I've seen your face on old coins. I know people who hang your picture on the wall and pray you'll return to reclaim the throne.”

“But you do not,” she says with a humorless smirk.

“Most reasonable people assumed you were dead,” I reply softly. She stares at me, her gaze hard and impenetrable and god I really wish carapaces had pupils so I wouldn't find her so unnerving.

“And you're Dirk Strider,” she replies. “The future prince of Derse, according to the humans, those lowbloods willing to grovel to humans, a carapace or two.” Her smile disappears. “You are the leader of the revolution.”

She rises from the bed and begins to stride away. “I think we've quite fulfilled our intrigue quotient for one day, hmm?” she hums, bouncing her cigarette holder in her lithe fingers. I stand, ready to follow her. 

“Wait!” I call. She does not turn to me, but she stops. “You disappeared completely after the Alternians seized the throne. So many people thought you died, but there were rumors you went underground.”

She cocks her head, thoughtful. “If I was underground, wouldn't the Prince of the underworld have noticed me?" 

“I'm not that far beneath the surface,” I scoff. “I don't know what goes on in the real underbelly of Derse.”

“So you admit your little revolution is a type of underbelly,” she chuckles, looking over her shoulder at me, “but you won't admit it is the 'real' one. Killing is bad, except when it's people who disagree with you who die, then it's justice.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Did you ask one? This conversation is getting terribly convoluted, I can't even remember how it started.”

“What happened to you?”

She stands in the middle of the floor, like a demure statue of onyx in the center of the most garish of trophy mansions. A work of art whose owner hasn't the sensibilities to appreciate her beauty for any more than the monetary value it represents.

Lips covering her teeth, voice condescendingly sweet, she says, “The same that's happened to _you._ ” And, with a flutter of her fingers, she is gone.

♠ 

We had agreed that the spot would be where we were least likely to be followed. Still, I brought my sword and my paranoia with me, so that I would be prepared for any man who tried to pursue me. It's just, unfortunately for me, no man pursued me. A demon did.

I can still see Jake's face that morning. Tanned skin stretched over a magnificent jaw, crooked teeth peeking out from behind a shy smile, emerald eyes peering at me from behind tousled, dark hair... (Ha – I must be more worried about his fate than I initially thought. I've never in my life indulged in such clichés. But then, even in the face of war, I've never in my life been in danger of losing my lover. In Prospit, he was always safe from that sort of thing.)

The forest we'd chosen was on the Derse's border, right outside Prospit, thick and dark and far from the heavily populated areas of kingdom where a war was raging. The war I started. I shouldn't have been so stupid that morning as to run off with Jake, but I desperately wanted to see him and there was no way her Imperious Condescension would have left any gate unmanned so I could escape to Prospit with him, and there was no way, even being my lover, I could possibly give away any of my headquarters to him. If he didn't have the information, it meant he couldn't be tortured for it, and so the safest thing to do was to meet halfway, guarded by trees. Jake pleaded with me in between kisses that morning to sneak away with him, to hide, but I refused to exile myself to Prospit. It was my fight. I had to help see it through to its end, even if that meant seeing me through to my own. 

And then the demon came.

In a great burst of smoldering multi-colored fire, he emerged, a hulking, beastly monster. He parted his gigantically sharp teeth and roared, jaw nearly unhinged, his wide torso bulging with power. Armed with a strange staff of sorts, he smashed it into Jake's head and sent him to the ground, where he stayed, very, very still. Blinded by fury and the fear he had been killed, I ran, sword-first, to kill the monster in turn, but... as fast as I was, as experienced a fighter, there is little good in fighting the supernatural. He easily overpowered me and delivered an incapacitating blow to my head as well.

Naturally, everything went black after that, and when I awoke, I was in this mansion, with Jake nowhere to be seen.

I haven't any idea who the monster is. I don't even know if I'm here as a prisoner of war, or as a snack for that beast. Only time can tell.


	2. Logos Plays Scheherazad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the space between paragraphs seems too big.

I am mercilessly bored. In addition to no weapons, there are no distractions of any kind for me to occupy my mind with. I can't go anywhere because the door, of course, is locked at all times from the outside, and far too heavy to break down. (This is a mansion, not a shack; the carpenters put actual care into crafting every part of it.) Thankfully, there is a door leading to a very small, bath-less powder room towards the back of this room, along the same wall as the bed. I will just have to wait for whoever the “lord” of this house is to come to me, and explain why it is I was brought here.

 

I can barely admit to myself that the reason I want something to do is because I am terrified. I wish Snowman would have stayed with me, even if she talks a lot and much of what she says is rude or cryptic. At least the air, my head, my nerves would be buzzing with something other than the anticipation of death or... well. Whatever horrible things my captor's more than likely kept me alive for.

 

I cannot let him do anything to me, persuade me in any way that might ultimately destroy the Revolution. I must protect those beneath me. If making sure the war can carry on without me means dying a martyr, I will gladly take that over being rendered a disgrace. And so, I cross my legs and hope for death.

 

Instead of death, yet another green person comes to the door. It is the one who was carrying a tray earlier. He eyes me warily through the slim crack of doorway before pushing the door wide open and gingerly setting a new tray down on a desk. He turns and seems to want to leave as quickly as possible but I call out to him.

 

“What's you name?” I ask.

 

He squints at me. “...I'm not supposed to talk to you.”

 

I tilt my head. “That may be,” I reply, “but you already are, so you may as well keep talking to me. I mean, it'd be rude to stop a conversation in its middle, right?”

 

He looks dizzied by this logic. “...Oh? Oh. Yes. Yes, you're right. That would be. Terribly rude.”

 

“What is your name?”

 

He wrings his hands. “...Doze.”

 

“Doze?” Weird, but then again, I've grown up with trolls, and it's nothing in comparison to a traditional Alternian name. “Uh, good name. I'm Dirk. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

 

“I really shouldn't be fraternizing,” he says, wariness plain on his face. Or is it weariness? Regardless of whether he wants to take a nap or is afraid I'll try to murder him with a blunt object, he's thinking of leaving.

 

“Is there anything to do around here?” I ask. “I'm developing some wicked cabin fever. I've been cooped up way too long, and-”

 

“You cannot leave this room,” Doze says, firmly. “Miss Snowman was quite clear on that.”

 

“Yeah. No. I get that.” Shit. “But if I can't pursue entertainment on my own, could you possibly, like. Bring me something? Like, maybe a pen, some paper...”

 

I trail off, noticing the anxious look on his face. “What?” I ask.

 

“Sharp point,” he says. “You can't leave and you can't have any sharp objects, either.”

 

I bite the inside of my mouth. This conversation is tedious. “Fine. Bring me some crayons instead, then. Whatever. I'm fucking dying of boredom here.”

 

He hesitates. “I don't know if...”

 

“Oh, come on.” I make a show of rolling my eyes derisively. “Do you honestly think I can cause any harm with some wax crayons?”

 

“Well, if they're non-toxic, I suppose not...”

 

Only if they're non-toxic? What a paranoid guy. “Look. What can I possibly do to you? Paper-cut you to death?” The green guy eyes me, seeming unsure I wouldn't. I sigh loudly. “Please, just get me the paper and crayons before I take out my boredom with something more violent.”

 

Okay, that's mean, but I'm not keen on fraternizing either, and it gets the point across. He hurries out, terrified (although he doesn't forget to lock the door behind him). About ten minutes later, I am regretting using such tactics, as he hasn't returned with any of what I asked for. I'm also afraid I've scared away my only conversational partner (however unwilling he was to take on the role). But just then, the lock clicks, the door creaks back open, and Doze hands me a sketchpad and... crayons, like I asked, because god knows how many people I could murder with a ballpoint pen.

 

Despite myself, I feel a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “Thank you so much,” I say, getting up to take the items from his hands. He flinches as I do so, and backs up immediately once I have them.

 

“Don't try to leave!” he warns. He never once turns his back on me, backing out of the door and keeping his eyes locked on me until he is sure he is safe behind a locked door. For all I know, he watches it for signs of me trying to escape.

 

I don't, though. I've already tested the lock numerous times today. I have resigned myself to the fact I will not be escaping quite yet, and I am instead hoping to pass the time in a different way.

 

I sit down at the desk. As I spread the paper out before me, I find myself impressed – it is actually really good quality, thick and textured. I feel bad that instead of a set of water colors, I only have awkward wax crayons. Oh, well – as a prisoner, I don't exactly have options.

 

Feeling four years old, I set one fat, green crayon's tip to the paper and begin to draw. It moves clumsily at first, but I keep myself from being too critical of what I produce, going over mistakes in different shades and shapes until I deem it significantly ruined. I crumple up the bad drawing and toss it away, in a vague direction, uncaring of where the trash bin is. I start again.

 

This time, I have an actual goal in mind. Picturing him as he was that morning in the clearing, before... before everything happened. I shake off images that leap to my mind – blood, a look of fear, pain – and focus instead on how he had smiled at me just seconds before that demon's arrival, the texture of his hands in mine, the way his smile seemed so effortless.

 

I draw absolutely nothing close to a realistic representation of Jake's face. Really, it's more of a simplified doodle. A circle head with dotted blocks for eyes. It is sillier than the hardcore, realistic attempt I made on the crumpled piece of paper, and thus significantly less stressful for me to produce. I half-assedly add scenery – the generic tree with a hole in it, chipmunks humping on one excessively graceful branch, some “birds in the distance” that are really just the letter V slashed over and over again. I don't know why deliberately producing something bad for the hell of it is making me feel better, but it does. Maybe doing things insincerely just helps preserve the light-hearted aspects of that morning, helps me block out the tragedy that so quickly spoiled it all.

 

To my dismay, the tragedy makes a dramatic entrance into my cushy, luxury suite of a prison just as I am starting to feel really calmed down.

 

The lock clicks, immediately catching my attention. I expect to see another little green guy or Snowman, but instead... well, it's certainly green. A whole other shade of green, though, dark like a forest, and suddenly I have an understanding of why the ceilings in this place are so unnecessarily high. With a start, I stumble out of my chair (probably would have knocked it over, if not for how it was bolted down), trying to get further from the door as the monster who may have killed my boyfriend comes into the room.

 

He is terribly tall and terribly strong, veins and muscles bulging out of him like they can barely be contained by his skin, which is... may I reiterate, _green._ A dark, reptilian green. His face is shaped exactly like a human skull, but with gigantic teeth, like knives, and eyes that spark and change color like fireworks. My body tenses in anticipation of an attack as my kidnapper gets inside the room and straightens himself to his full height, an imposing figure infinitely taller than any mortal man. I've heard rumors of high blooded trolls this large, but still, I have never seen a living creature stand on two legs – or, scratch that, one leg and a gold, prosthetic peg – and look at me with such bestial ferocity, with such fangs, with such blazing eyes, with such-

 

“Do you know why I brought you here?” growls the demon.

 

I swallow. For all the animalistic ferocity of his appearance, it is the humanoid parts that make him truly terrifying. His torso looks like any other man's, but emerald and magnified by a hundred. A multicolored robe fit for a king billows down his shoulders. His body, his head, his hands – they are sharp, they are evil, but they are also humanoid.

 

“I haven't the faintest,” I lie. But really, there's only one reason anyone would ever want to imprison me. I mean. I _am_ the one who started civil war in Derse.

 

The current one, that is. Derse has had quite a few wars, all of them supposedly “civil.”

 

“You are the Prince of the Revolution,” the demon's voice booms. “Shepard of humankind. Healer of hopeless hearts. Dirk Strider.”

 

“Yes, those are some of my more dramatic titles,” I say drily. “Did you come here to talk to me, or list my credentials? Because trust me, I know them.”

 

The demon takes a step forward. He and I both feel my body jerk violently in response. “You claim to be all of these things. And yet you tremble in terror of my presence.”

 

“I wouldn't say _terror,_ ” I complain. My hand's death grip on the back of the desk's chair says otherwise. “And I'm hardly trembling. I'm on guard. I mean. You _did_ sort of kidnap me.” And maybe murder my boyfriend.

 

The demon's eyes seem to spin rapidly, changing color as they do so. I swear I see numbers flashing there, too, and... Are they... does he have billiard balls for eyes?

 

“In any case. As I have said. Your reputation precedes you. Your skills are impressive. I have witnessed you in action more than once and found it...” He breathes, heavily, and it sends a squeamish shiver through my gut. “...Scintillating.”

 

“Yeah, well.” I clear my throat, hoping to the highest order of my troll friends' bizarre religions that my voice doesn't crack. “That's what I do. Best.”

 

He lurches forward, every atom in my body igniting in panic as the room fills with not only his physical largeness, but the pure intimidation and fear that follows it. I must not really be seeing the black smoke curling around him, instead expecting, from the horrorterror tales I've been raised on, the magic and other ominous trappings of a villain. I blink, and the physical manifestations of evil are gone.

 

Except for him, of course. He gets closer and closer, cornering me with his bulk. I clutch the chair, steeling myself, expecting to die a martyr but not without a considerable fight. His hot breath wafts over my face as he speaks.

 

“I am impressed by your skills. But to let you free. Would be a hindrance to my plans for Derse.”

 

His plans for Derse? “Look, buddy,” I say, voice impressively steady, “I don't know what Derse you're talking about, but the one I grew up in sure as hell not easy to snatch by full-scale war, let alone some solo, magicky demon.”

 

A rumble issues forth from his chest, the air seeming to vibrate with his amusement... or is that my unadulterated terror making me tremble? Dammit, this thing might've killed Jake! I shouldn't be scared, I should be angry! I'll probably die, but so what? Like my fate ever had any other outcome, from the moment I landed in the hands of a monster... From the moment I became leader of a nationwide war.

 

“I have had Derse under my command for four years now. _Boy._ ” The monster's eyes narrow. “I cannot have you running around. Wherever you please.”

 

I lick my lips. Is this guy crazy? Or is there more to the current queen's rise to power than any of us understand? “...Yeah, well. I'm real sorry about that.”

 

He looms over me. “You are probably wondering. Why I have kept you alive. For this long.”

 

“Long? It's only been a day.” I don't think my fists will have any impact on a creature this physically overbearing.

 

He grins, an eerie sight on a veritable skeleton. “I have felt the tyrian purple blood of a troll queen. Warm my tongue. I have felt the hard shell of a carapace queen. Crack under my teeth.” He salivates. I am simultaneously repulsed and terrified, my shoulder digging into the desk's chair in an attempt to put space between us. “But never have I felt. The sweet, red flesh. Of human royalty. Melting in my mouth.”

 

“I'm not real royalty,” I whisper.

 

“You will do,” he rumbles, and makes as if to lunge at me.

 

I go to release my grip on the chair, but the unsteadiness of my body causes me to wobble on my feet. I try pathetically to reach for some, any weapon with my left hand, the right pathetically shielding myself from the creature. The demon rolls its head to look at where I'm reaching, hunger twisting in his eyes and his posture and he –

 

All the aggression dissipates from his body language. He is looking at the desk. “What is that.”

 

I freeze. “A-ah.” Shit. Way to hide my fear like a professional, whimpering like an idiot. It's not like I haven't faced death before. What the hell do I have to be so afraid of? “That's some drawing stuff. One of your neon henchmen brought it to me, so if you're going to punish anyone-”

 

“I am not an idiot. I know what paper and crayons are,” the demon growls. “Who is the person in that picture?”

 

I blink. It's not the question I was expecting. I wonder if maybe he remembers Jake from earlier. My stomach sinks just at the thought of it. That demon's claws, swiping at his head...

 

“That's Jake English,” I say softly. The demon looks at the picture, seeming to contemplate it. I steel myself for the worst.

 

“...I like that name,” says the demon. He seems to hesitate. Then, “But he is ugly."

 

I look at him in astonishment. I feel like I'm going crazy, with how mundane this conversation suddenly became. I watch his face for several seconds, trying to tell if he's being serious... when an idea occurs to me.

 

I squeeze past him, back over to the desk. He moves, almost imperceptibly, but enough to let me know that I'm not doing anything expressly forbidden. Hoping I've read him right, I pull out a new piece of paper and begin to draw. This time, instead of Jake's face, I give him a skull for a head. A green skull.

 

"Yes. That is better.” A hum of approval rumbles from the demon's throat. It reminds me of a cat purring, if the cat were a giant, murderous, humanoid demon. (This simile, despite its comic juxtaposition, does not lighten my mood.)

 

“And what does this English boy do?"

 

There is a pregnant pause. I can't believe we're still talking about my stupid drawings. I should be demon food by now. "...He goes on... adventures. He explores the world, unearths ancient tombs, and. Topples sacred urns left and right." As a monster who goes around cracking people's boyfriends over the head, I figure he'll enjoy that little detail.

 

He seems to consider my words. It's hard to tell – pure skeleton hardly hardly makes for an expressive face. "Does he solve puzzles on these quests?"

 

"Yes. Yes he does."

 

"Good. I like – _he_ seems to be the type. Who likes puzzles."

 

Once again, my body gives a jolt of fear as the demon moves, hunkering down beside me. After a tick, I abandon my spot leaning over the desk to actually sit down at it. Even on his haunches, the monster towers over me.

 

“What else?” he asks me. “What other things does English get up to?”

 

It occurs to me that this has turned into a story-telling session. I'm not really sure how to go on, but I know I have to think of something, ride this thing out if only for the sake of my life. If only to figure out if this demon guy is really is who he says...

 

“Well, he. He saves the day-”

 

The demon scoffs. I make amends. “...He... _ruins_ the day. For boring heroes. Who needs them? Not him.” I start outlining the inside of an ancient tomb in yellow, planning to trace over it in a darker color when I've got the design figured out. “He also gets plenty of beautiful women.”

 

The demon bobs his head approvingly. “Yes. Very good. Draw some.”

 

“Draw some what?”

 

“Some bitches.”

 

Oh, god. Am I hearing correctly? Did a highly powerful demon just refer to women as “bitches” like some twelve-year-old boy? In any case, I oblige. I hope Roxy (a person whose introduction as “someone I hope to see again” should suffice for now) doesn't mind me borrowing her face. I'm a little low on creativity at the moment, what with a monster breathing down my neck.

 

“Tell me more about this Jake English.”

 

I start to fumble, catching myself before I ruin Roxy's face. “Oh, I. I don't know...” I'm an expert storyteller, as you can clearly see.

 

The demon is getting impatient. “Make him play a game.”

 

It is the first time he has directly commanded me. I feel jostled by the change in power balance. “What sort of game-?”

 

“A cosmic game!! One where the fate of all of existence rests in his hands! And. And make him quash it!” The excitement in his voice is nearly childish. It would be hilarious if it weren't so terrifying.

 

“Okay. Okay.” I rack my brains for the proper narrative. “...Okay. Jake English stands in a dark and scary tomb with one of his...” I cringe at the word. “... _bitches._ It just so happens that today, the... The...”

 

“Twenty-fourth,” the demon supplies.

 

“...The twenty-fourth of January, is the day he will become a man...”

 

“An _evil_ man.”

 

“Yes. An evil man...”

 

♦

 

The demon has me constructing this ridiculous, makeshift picture book for him all afternoon. At one point I run out of paper, and he rushes out into the hall to demand more. His roar echoes off the high walls, and I can see flashes of panicked green faces and hear the rapid scrambling of feet to fulfill this order. 

 

The story I've concocted picks up the pace after ten or so pages, and before long, I'm just as invested in this ridiculous adventure tale as he is. You'd think it'd be for entirely different reasons, what with how it's my only way of prolonging my life, but I can't say I don't enjoy coming up with all manner of ridiculous things to happen next. By the time night falls outside my window, Jake's alternate universe self has been deceived into death by a “disgusting lime-blooded” troll girl (who he then brutally mutilates as revenge), acquired three girlfriends, and met up to do battle against a flying dog demon with the dashing exiled Blond Prince of the Dark Kingdom by his side. The demon is like a child, laughing raucously when the protagonist succeeds, and roaring in anger when I present some obstacle. (It's terrifying at first, but I come to be able to discern his real anger from his reactionary frustration.)

 

We stop at a point where Jake has won some ridiculously priceless loot by cheating on some unsolvable puzzle. The demon seems to be pleased with our creation, and regards it fondly. “Yes,” he says. “Now then. Back to what. I originally came here for.”

 

My stomach sinks. Seriously? After all that he's just going to mutilate me? The monster rises to his feet, large body nearly eclipsing the light from the chandelier.

 

“Any last words, Prince?”

 

No. I can _not_ die now. I _can't._ I don't want to... I don't want the story to go to waste!

 

“You don't want to find out what happens next?” I blurt.

 

He looks puzzled. His aura becomes significantly less threatening. “...Next? I thought we were done with the story.”

 

“Oh, no! No, no, see, this is just one arc.” I keep my face as still as possible, trying not to let on how full of shit I am. “If you kill me now, you'll never find out. Who. The ultimate villain is.”

 

The demon scowls. “Jake is!”

 

“No, no, see,” I gesticulate vaguely, “Jake doesn't know it, but there are evils out there stronger than him that he must harness if. He wants to become the ultimate evil. You know? And there are loads more puzzles to solve, and tombs to raid, and... _bitches_ to score.”

 

The demon considers this. “...All right. Tell me this story, now.”

 

He starts to hunker down again. I blanche. “No!” I say.

 

He glares at me. “ _No?”_

 

“ _No!”_

 

He lets out a frustrated snarl. “Do you want to die so badly, prince?”

 

“No, It's just. My hand.” I grab my left wrist, being sure to make pained faces. “If I draw for too long, I'll exacerbate my carpal tunnel. And I won't be able to finish the story. And you'll never know what happened.”

 

The demon and I engage in a staring contest. His rapidly spinning eyes flash eerily at me, the only emotions I can decipher from him being those expressed in his large, furrowed brow. I am careful not to let my gaze waver.

 

“...Fine,” the demon says. “I'll be back tomorrow. This story had better be good.”

 

“Yes,” I say, trying to come up with some impressive quip, but he turns his back on me and begins to lurch out of the room.

 

“You probably need your rest. If you are going to prepare. A story worthy of sparing your life.”

 

So he knows, then. I nod stiffly, before remembering his back is to me. “It'll be the best thing you've ever seen. Hell, all other stories are going to be ruined for you after this.”

 

The large door shuts behind him. I slump down in my seat, relieved to be alive. But for how long?

 

♦

 

“His name is _English?_ ”

 

Snowman nods. I point to the door as though he'll appear.

 

“The demon,” I say. “The monster. His name is English?”

 

“I don't know why you keep repeating it,” Snowman says. “Is it weird to you, that he'd have a name, or...?”

 

“No, it's just... a real small world that we live in, is all.” I bite my lip. There's no way there can be any connection. It's a waste of time to even entertain the thought. “You know, the name of the guy I sent you to find...”

 

“Oh, yes – actually, we swept the area where English picked you up.”

 

I pause my previous train of thought. “Yes? Please tell me he's okay.”

 

She purses her lips. “I don't actually know.”

 

I stare at her face. She seems... genuinely sorry, at least. “Okay?”

 

With a huff, she gets up from my bed to pace the room. I have twist from where I'm sitting at my desk to look at her. “He wasn't there. No corpse, no word of a dark haired man stumbling through the nearest town bloody... No sight nor word of him at all. So if you could give me his name,” she turned to me, “we can widen the search, and find out if he wandered off to die, or if he's alive somewhere.”

 

“He's probably somewhere in Derse,” I say automatically. I scowl. “The idiot. It'd be safer for him to go back to Prospit and try to contact my family that way, but knowing him, he's probably running the streets, screaming 'Striders!' at the top of his lungs. Stupid, really, not just because he'll get himself killed, but considering that no one in hiding is honestly dumb enough to respond...”

 

The loud tapping of Snowman's foot finally reaches my ears. When I look out of my lap, where my gaze has wandered, to her eyes, she smiles plasticly back at me. “Yes. You're a rambler. No problem, so am I. Now, if you could provide me with your paramour’s name...?”

 

I break eye contact. “...Jake English.”

 

Her white eyes widen considerably. “...Well. I can see now why you were so hung up on my husband's name.”

 

“Yeah,” I mutter. “He works as a page under a knight in Prospit's royal family. He's a member of one of Prospit's oldest and most powerful families. If he goes missing for long, there will be turmoil... well. With Makara in power, there won't be _turmoil,_ but it'll be in the major Prospitian papers, and people will worry about him.”

 

She nods. “Good to know.”

 

She doesn't leave. We stare at each other expectantly for several seconds, and then...

 

“...So this story you're drawing. Does it have room for a mysterious woman of the night, a... master assassin, arms dealer, and femme fatale?” She strikes a pose for me. Her white eyelashes flutter exaggeratedly, and I find myself laughing. Not a raucous laugh, but. A laugh. She seems pleased.

 

“We'll see. Honestly, I see myself likely to take any inspiration, if only because it'll prolong my life until...”

 

I trail off. Her brow furrows. “Until what? He kills you?”

 

She stares at me. I look away. 

 

It dawns on her. “Dirk. You're not going to try to escape, are you? Because you mustn’t. It's impossible to do alone, you'll die.”

 

I look back at her, sourly. “You _would_ say that. But I am getting out of here. I've dealt with violence and espionage since I was fifteen, I can surely escape a crowded mansion and some lumbering demon.” Even if I've technically never been successfully kidnapped before today, I figure it's just one more obstacle I have to overcome before I can rightfully lead Derse's kingdom to rebirth.

 

“No – Dirk, really.” She rushes over to my desk and puts her elbows on its surface, putting her face somewhat level with mine. I can't escape her gazing imploringly into my face at such close range. “Dirk. He's not an animal – he's not a genius quite, either, but he is more powerful than you can ever imagine, and he _will_ kill you.”

 

I sigh. “You're his pawn. How could I ever trust you?”

 

She frowns at my diction, however... “Oh. Shit. Yes, that is a perfectly good point.” She straightens her posture so she is not leaning towards me, a hand on her mouth as she thinks. “There might be no convincing you today.” She sighs, and goes on as if she has forgotten I'm here. “And what a shame. I really liked you...”

 

“I won't fall for that,” I say. Really, though, I'm unsure of myself. I don't know if she's trustworthy or not – she seems, from her tone, to legitimately care, but considering she's just another henchman in this lavish prison, it would be irrational for me to give in and take her word for it.

 

I am brought out of my thoughts by her patting me affectionately on the leg. “Oh, well. It's not like you can really leave this place alive. Shame. Hopefully your little story will hold hubby dearest's attention for a while; I do _so_ enjoy your company.”

 

She gets up to leave. “Speaking of which, I'd better go. If you don't get tonight's installment just right, who knows if I'll ever see you again!”


	3. With This Shackle, I Thee Wed

A week later, Snowman barges into my room again. She makes her entrance dramatically, throwing the door wide open, both arms outstretched. Her smile, when I look up from my desk and catch her eye, is utterly manic.

 

"I thought I was going to have to advise you at least _somewhat_ on how to survive here, but you're even more ingenious than I thought!"

 

Snowman moves about my room like she owns the place – which, I guess, she sort of does. She walks with the knowledge that she is the head of the household, shoulders back, chest out, fabulous legs striding towards me. She looks like a model. If any queen had to be the cultural icon for a nostalgic, ideal Derse, she's certainly beautiful enough to encourage people to hang her visage on their walls.

 

I've never had much of a weak spot for beautiful women myself. "What are you talking about?" I ask, sure to emphasize my exasperation with a breathy sigh.

 

"Brilliant!” she exclaims, her arm sweeping outwards as if to measure the incredible breadth of said brilliance. “At first I thought you were just begging for a few extra hours, preparing for whatever wild, doomed-to-fail scheme you'd eventually concoct to try and leave this place, but now I see that the story itself _was_ the scheme! The way you've _seduced_ my husband, really, is quite brilliant – he's almost _sure_ to spare you now."

 

I narrow my eyes at her, setting down the notes I'd been taking as an outline for tomorrow's installment. I've found preparing in advance usually produces a narrative that holds the demon's attention better, and is less prone to... hiccups that give away my inexperience. Not that much of the story didn't still revolve around his demands, but in order to keep it coherent, I have to plan ahead somewhat.

 

“Hey,” I snap. “there's no need to get so territorial. I'm not trying to fuck-”

 

She raises her hands in defense and quickly cuts me off. "Oh, I'm not trying to imply you're going to take him from me! He doesn't really belong to me, anyway. I'm merely implying you know your way around a man, how to bargain with your life in his hands, how to manipulate him-"

 

I'm getting sort of pissed and, stupidly, I let it show. "You seem pretty obsessed with my sexuality."

 

“Who said this has anything to do with sexuality?” Her lip curls into a sharp, smug grin. “A good political leader needs to know how to manipulate those around him. Yes? Am I wrong?”

 

She waltzes over to the desk where I'm sitting, glances briefly at my papers. “...Quite the tactician,” she praises. “See? This has nothing to do with sexuality and everything to do with that big brain of yours. Have I told you how excited I am to have someone intelligent to talk to again?”

 

Grumbling, I cover my papers with my arms, like a student taking a test trying to ward off cheaters. She giggles mockingly at me, understanding the gesture for what it is. “Oh, don't be so sensitive!” she crows. She leans her elbows on the desk to get a better look, ass jutting out behind her in a pin-up sort of pose. “I just want a little peak. Husband dearest gets so excited when he recounts the story for my benefit, but goodness knows he misses pieces here and there and the Felt have quite twisted your narrative through all of their second-hand accounts whispered back and forth, so if I could just...”

 

“He gets to hear the story first,” I say firmly, turning the papers blank side up. “You know what a temper tantrum he'll throw if anybody else gets the big update before him.”

 

She feigns frustration. “Well. Perhaps you could explain what's happened so far to me? It's quite the convoluted story you've concocted, and I have a bet with Eggs over whether Jane is actually dead or if it's her alternate universe self who was impaled on a triton.”

 

“...You're right on that one,” I admit. I'd had to re-explain that to English several times. “I'll probably have to kill off regular Jane too soon, though, because he keeps asking me to. Don't quote me on that, though. I haven't entirely decided yet.”

 

Snowman snickers softly. “Manipulating him for fun, are we? How wicked of you.”

 

I return her snicker with a weary look. “No more wicked than kidnapping somebody.”

 

“Mm, yes, it's a fair trade-off, I suppose.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “But won't he get angry if you defy too many of his commands? He's not all that keen on anger management, and I have to tell you, if you don't think he's wild enough to kill you over a mere story...”

 

“It'll be fine. I thought you said he wanted to fuck me too badly to kill me?” I reply, sarcastic.

 

She winces. “Oh, I was hardly so foul when _I_ said it.”

 

I scowl at her. Then, “Well. I still obey his larger demands. I only mess with him as far as it makes the story more entertaining.” I gesture vaguely to my drawings. “You see, readers _think_ they know what they want. But if the protagonist achieves his goal instantly and doesn't make any painful mistakes or struggle along the way, the audience, despite how they groan and complain when the protagonist makes those glaring mistakes, gets bored. There's no story without its degree of frustration. So English might tell me he wants Jane dead, but really, her interference in Jake's quest is quite vital to his development as a character and the primary cause of obstacles on his journey. With her permanently dead, that's one less interesting element in the story.”

 

Another chuckle, but less condescending, brushes my ear. “You really care about the craft. Not just preserving your life.”

 

I shrug again. “If I don't care about the craft, what I produce won't be good enough to keep me alive.”

 

She nods, smiling, but our good mood does not last long. A strange look passes over her face. “How long do you think you can keep this up?”

 

I close my eyes. The room suddenly seems far too bright. If I ever get out of here, I won't want to see the color green ever again. “I don't honestly know,” I say. “But as of right now, the story is only just getting started. I have time.”

 

I can feel her inspecting my face. “And what is there for you to do with your time? I do hope you're not entertaining the notion of escape. I thought you were smarter than that.”

 

“I don't understand.”

 

“Escape is impossible! So what is the point of you prolonging your life here like this? Why waste eternity here, subjugated like a dog, when your little war would be just as favorably ignited by your genuine martyrdom?”

 

Because I'm afraid to die. “Because I want to live. And I want to find out myself if my boyfriend's still alive, and if it's at all possible, see him again.” In other words, no, I haven't given up hope on getting out. I open my eyes. “Have you managed to find out yet if he's alright?”

 

She doesn't comment on my desire to escape. We've disagreed on it too many times already. “Oh, I don't know,” she huffs. The way she disembarks from the desk, strides towards my bed with her back to me, so she can idly inspect the nothing in the opposite direction from me, has me suspicious of her. She drawls on. “Your boyfriend's proving a lot harder to find than I originally thought.”

 

I watch her bare shoulders for some hint of an emotional clue. Instead I find myself wondering about her strapless gown, what she's dressed so formally for. I ask, and she glances over her shoulder at me, her brow raised.

 

“No special occasion. I just like to look good.” She pauses, brow crinkling. “That's a weird change in subject. You're usually quite no-nonsense when it comes to information on that boy.”

 

I shrug. “I've already had this conversation with you numerous times and gotten nothing further out of you other than that you haven't procured the information yet because you can't find him. I figure it's no use beating a dead horse; the most logical thing to do is to let it go until you actually have something you're willing to tell me.”

 

“'Willing,'” she repeats, biting her thumbnail with a toothy grin. “You still don't trust me.”

 

“You've yet to give me any reason to trust you.”

 

“But we've known each other a whole week!” she jeers, sarcastic. Then, “Give it time, dear. I'll prove myself to you eventually. Just as soon as my employees find this... dashing Prospitian page of yours, I'll win you over. You'll see!”

 

She starts to move out of the room again. “Bored with me?” I ask, and she shrugs, lithe arms reaching to the sky as if to ask, _why is this boy so needy?_

 

“You be sure to keep my husband occupied,” she calls. She has the courtesy to shut (and lock) the door behind her.

 

♠

 

In the installment one day later, Jake and the dastardly handsome Blond Prince have managed to destroy the dark king's army and infiltrate his castle. Beside me at my desk, the demon shifts in excitement. “English tells the useless pawn, 'We are taking the throne.'”

 

I hum as I draw a black figure. “The drone says that's dangerous, considering the king is still on it.”

 

The demon scoffs. “We will remove him from his throne. With very little difficulty.” As per usual, his excitement has caused him to fall into character. I sigh.

 

“Alright, then... but I hope you remember that every time their weapons upgrade, so does the dark king's power level.”

 

The demon looks incredulous. “When did you explain-?” He shakes his massive head. “No. It doesn't matter. English has been on this journey for ages. He will win. No doubt.”

 

“I don't know about that...” There is something universally threatening about someone who knows more than you saying that sentence in a high octave. The demon glares at me, as if to dare me to ruin his fun. Of course Jake will live, though – he's the protagonist. One of his beautiful female sidekicks, however...

 

I draw several panels of a battle for him. There is much lamenting on the demon's part when I kill pseudo-Roxy off, until he remembers that kissing her will bring her Other Soul back to life. She's died so many times, though, that she is unable to be revived, as she has used up all of her Souls. With one less babe in his extensive harem, Jake English swears vengeance, and he and Blond Prince resume destroying the dark king tenfold.

 

A rumbling I've come to realize is a chuckle sounds throughout the demon's chest. “Yes, yes.” He leers down at the page I've drawn. “This is your best work yet.”

 

“Thank you,” I reply.

 

“With that king out of the way. Jake is certainly that much closer. To being the most powerful evil person. In the galaxy.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“And now, with the dark kingdom in his power. Jake may wreak much havoc. On all new peoples.”

 

I nod. “That would seem to be the case.”

 

The demon is quiet for a moment, almost as if he is hesitating.

 

“The blond human is exceptionally strong. He could potentially pose a threat. To the English boy.”

 

My brows furrows without me even thinking. That's weird of him to bring up. Still, I mull it over. “Perhaps,” I relent, after thinking about it for a while. I don't really have any exciting mutiny stories planned, but...

 

“Unless of course. He joins the English boy.”

 

“...They seem to be working together just fine,” I reply. My eyes are trained on the page in my hands, but I'm not really seeing it.

 

The demon shifts. “Perhaps. But perhaps it would do him well to become. A more. Intimate follower of English.”

 

A claw brushes the nape of my neck. I feel my stomach sink.

 

I swallow. “Yes, well. They are working together already, so. Maybe their relationship could, you know, stay professional.”

 

“Or,” says the demon, voice getting firmer, “he could become one of English's most worthy disciples.” He pauses. “Should the prince agree to his terms.”

 

I can picture Snowman, smiling coyly at me as she is prone to do. _What did I tell you, Dirk?_

 

“And what would those terms be?” I inquire, pivoting in my seat so as to better look up into the demon's face.

 

“He would have to follow English, and only English.”

 

I bite my lip. “What if any other Englishes appear to him?”

 

The demon is exasperated by this question. He flexes a meaty, green claw, as if in warning. “Only this one.”

 

“But what if he doesn't want to?” I ask. And I immediately regret it.

 

The demon smashes his fist down on my desk, fracturing the wood and knocking over a goblet of drawing utensils. Nice paint brushes and pens and the crayons that started it all roll out onto the floor and across the new pages of the story. I stare at them each in turn, thinking about how long it took me to convince him I needed each one. I bet half of them are broken, now; all that begging rendered pointless.

 

“ _I know that the Prospitian page shares my name!_ ” the demon roars. “ _I am not an idiot!_ ”

 

“No,” I sniff. Even though I shouldn't be attached to this place, I consider these things mine, and I'm annoyed he broke them. “As you've already explained, you just have a _special_ mind.”

 

Adrenaline shoots through my chest as his claw swipes through the air, heading straight for my neck. It stops short, though. I release a long, shaky breath in reply.

 

“You,” the demon snarls, “I want you to be mine. I want you to stay here forever.”

 

“That's-”

 

“SILENCE!” he thunders. “YOU WILL PLAY. NO MORE MIND GAMES. WITH ME!”

 

I choke on my words. His breath is hot on my face. I can see every sharp tooth; each is the size of one of my fingers. I think how easy it would've been for him to kill me from the start. I think how infinitesimal my life must seem, next to a creature of this sort of humungous power and ferocity. I think what little demand there seems to be for him to have yet another soldier under his command when he can do so much.

 

I think I should've paid better attention when he said he loved puzzles, games, challenges, because I think he's the one who's been playing _me_ , planning to ensnare me from the start.

 

“You will stay in this place. And be with me. For life,” he snarls. His sentence fragments are getting shorter, the effort of his anger causing him to punctuate his words with great, heaving breaths.

 

I look him dead in the eyes. “No.”

 

Needless to say, this has him utterly livid. The force of his next roar has me averting my eyes – because of the sound, the saliva, I tell myself, not out of fear, not – not that. Though I refuse to look at him, the demon continues to snarl and holler in my face, a child demanding his toy bend to his will.

 

But I am no toy.

 

“You may kill me if you like,” I whisper, voice almost inaudible beneath his roars. “But you cannot control me.” My jaw trembles – with fear or anger, even I cannot tell. “Don't bother asking me to bow to you, you miserable, childish, _tyrant!_ ”

 

He closes in on me, teeth brushing my neck, breath fanning out in disgusting, hot waves over my face, eyes blazing like the fires of hell –

 

He withdraws. “I will make you see things my way, Dirk.”

 

He slams the door of my room shut so hard, he breaks it off its hinges. Despite the uselessness of the lock, I stay where I am. It's not like I really have anywhere else safe to go.

 

♠

 

About an hour later I've barely moved, and Snowman barges into my room with her usual gusto. She doesn't even flinch as, failing to close with a slam of her hand, my door instead collapses loudly to the floor behind her.

 

“So!” she exclaims, briskly. “How is the bride to be?”

 

I shoot her a wary look. “Please don't mock me.”

 

She stands before me, one hand on her hip, looking exasperated with my refusal to play along with her high energy roleplay. “O-kay, I'll lay off the misgendering, just for you. Because I like you, and I know we'll be great friends.”

 

She keeps saying that like it's an inevitability, as though she thinks I'm going to be here for a long time. Which, given recent developments, may actually be the case. I feel queasy, lightly touching my fingers to my temple even though I know it's impossible to ward off the oncoming migraine.

 

Snowman goes over to my bed and sits down, looking about the lavish canopy admiringly. “When I was a little girl, I always wanted something like this. So I could feel like a princess, you know?” She flicks her hand, gesturing vaguely. “Funny, how actually getting what you want puts things into perspective.”

 

“You were the future queen of Derse,” I point out. I get up out of my chair, hoping movement will distract me from the feeling of my brain trying to escape through my temples. “Surely you got everything you wanted. Surely you had canopy beds by the dozen, as well as anything else you could dream up. Surely you were a princess.”

 

She scoffs. “Don't be stupid. I know you're not stupid. You know no one comes to power in Derse naturally; I had to seize it just like our current queen, just like you, just like... everyone else!” She watches me pace. Then, “Really, Dirk, how _are_ you doing? It must be quite an adjustment, if only emotionally.”

 

“How am I doing after _what?”_ I grumble, furiously rubbing the bridge of my nose. The throbbing won't cease. “I've been trapped in this place for fucking days. I'm the one of the most powerful men in Derse-” she snorts at this, “-and yet I've been wasting my time babysitting a colossal, supernatural monster in the hopes he'll be distracted enough that I can escape or – and how was I so stupid as to hope this? – actually let me go _himself_. God knows there won't be any revolution waiting for me by the time I get out of this place – they'll have moved on without me.”

 

Fuck, why do I have to be having this headache right now? On top of everything? Snowman raises her eyebrow at me. “Would you like a glass of water, or...?”

 

“Yes,” I sputter. “Please.”

 

She walks over to the door, calls out for someone to get the glass for her, and saunters back into the room while we wait. “Normally your face barely moves an inch, but you're all but fisting it right now.” I look at my hand, lowering it from my eye at the realization that that's exactly what I've been doing. “...Rubbing it doesn't really make it feel better, but it gives me the illusion I'm doing something about it,” I mutter.

 

Her lips are in a tight line. Neither of us seems to be our usual selves today.

 

“You seem like you want to say something,” I remark.

 

She doesn't hesitate; she pauses. “You're not very good with emotions, are you? That's why they're manifesting themselves psychosomatically.”

 

I rolled my eyes. “This isn't some poem. My headaches aren't a metaphor for my feelings.”

 

She looks at me as though I'm terribly stupid. “...You don't know much about physical effects of stress, do you?”

 

I scowl. “I do. I'm just not stressed.”

 

“Oh, please!” She jumps to her feet. “You just got proposed to by the most powerful monster on the planet, and you're telling me you're not the least bit stressed?”

 

“ _Proposed?_ Oh, cut it out with the fucking emasculating metaphors-”

 

She throws her hands up. “It's _not a metaphor!_ ” She stops several inches in front of me. We're face to face, and willing each other to submit by way of glare. “English proposed to you today. Did you not get that, or are you really just that deep in denial?”

 

I grit my teeth. Before I can untangle the knots in my jaw and articulate an intelligent response, there is a hesitant knock at the doorframe. Snowman goes to fetch the glass of water from the little green guy, and withins seconds has him running down the hall with the command “don't let anyone else up here to eavesdrop or I swear to god” ringing in his ears.

 

She jabs the glass of water in my direction. “Here.”

 

I grab it, taking a large swallow to distract myself. This headache likely isn't going away any time soon, though, so I'm sure not to drink all of it. “You're crazy if you think I'm going to marry him. How is that even legal?”

 

"He's not talking of marriage in the traditional sense, Dirk. He's a demon – he can hardly set foot in a chapel, even in Derse. He has other methods of forcing your hand. In fact – let me show you."

 

She holds out her hand. On her ring finger is a piece of jewelry so vividly white, that I question whether it is corporeal or a thing made entirely of light.

 

“Try to take this off me,” she says. “Go on.”

 

I reach forward and tug. My brow furrows. I tug again. And again. I'm about ready to put her hand in a lock position and try again when she pulls her hand away.

 

"Actually, let's skip breaking my wrist for the sake of the scientific method, and just accept the fact that it isn't possible to remove."

 

Unconsciously, I clench my fingers as though I am still gripping the ring between my fingers. "Magic?"

 

"Of course."

 

I frown. "...Of the horror terror sort?"

 

"Heavens, no. At least, I don't think. Didn't the white tip you off? I believe this is good magic, albeit, used by a not so good person."

 

White magic, she means, so named because the side effect of the results is usually, literally, white light, whereas those spells connected to horrorterror incantations produce a hazy darkness. The common slang is “good” for white magic and “bad” for grimdark, or horrorterror, magic. My mother was a genuinely good person who dabbled in horror terror mysticism, so the “good” and “bad” titles certainly don't apply in practice, but I don't really feel like bringing that up. It's about as useless as arguing that Derse isn't evil, and that the dichotomy between it and Prospit is mostly illusory.

 

Knowing Snowman, she has surely heard these debates a million times over by now.

 

I glance at her face. “...How does a demon go about using white magic?”

 

She shrugs. “I haven't the faintest. But he doesn't look like any horror terror I've ever seen, so maybe he's a demon of a different class than we're familiar with. Maybe he's not a demon at all.”

 

I frown. That's ridiculous. Another kind of demon, untethered to grimdark magic? There's no such thing. There can't be. My mother would know; _I_ would know. But then again, how could he be anything _but_ a demon? He certainly wasn't any of the three higher species – a troll, a human, or a carapace – so that means he has to be a supernatural entity.

 

No matter how seemingly impossible, the reality of the situation won't change. For now, I turn my attention back to more pressing matters. “What does the ring do?”

 

She purses her lips. “It makes sure I can't leave.”

 

My eyebrows furrow. “But you're always out of the house.”

 

“The ring functions as he wills it, and his will is that I am able to carry out his bidding wherever he needs me to, for however long he wants.” She places her hands on her hips. “And if he wills it, I can be restricted to the house. Easily.”

 

I stare at her. I don't know if my face is as plaintive as it feels, but her look of sympathy is making it hard for me to meet her gaze for much longer. I turn away before I lose face.

 

“I can't believe this is happening to me.” I mean to mutter it, but it comes out as more of a pained whisper.

 

Snowman comes up and places a gentle hand on my shoulder. She doesn't force me to turn around, though, nor does she try to catch sight of my face.

 

"Every girl, especially a princess," a snide reference to my many monikers, no doubt, "is eventually bound and gagged to some horrid man. For the kingdom, her safety, his reward – regardless of the reason, it is an inevitability. Fate."

 

I don't care that she's joking. Her attempts to emasculate me hardly lift my mood. "I'm not a woman," I utter.

 

Snowman lets out a raucous chuckle. "Oh, Dirk! Haven't you ever read up on the greats? Women aren't _born –_ they're _made._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> misgendering is not cool. Don't do it. Respect people's pronouns. You're not trendy for calling a gay or un-masculine man “princess,” you are just a butthead.  
> Snowman and other characters' tendency to misgender Dirk in mockery/“jokingly” is not going to be framed by this narrative as a good thing or a funny thing. It happens many times throughout this story, and is supposed to invite readers to think not just about how hateful language hurts people, but what makes the language hurtful to our protagonist. Of course Dirk wants his identity* be respected, and in that way, the language is harmful not only to his gender, but to his gender as a gay man who is constantly put down by society as “wanting to be a woman” or being a “failed man.” But is there more to the insult of being called “woman” when one is not? Is being a woman considered a bad thing?
> 
> *Dirk is cisgender in this fic, by the way.
> 
> (Also, to those wondering, Snowman totally just made a reference to Simone de Beauvoir. I like to believe that Simone is a universal constant.)


	4. The Soul in the Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me, it's all for a reason.

The claw hovered between his legs. _What do you want me to do._

 

_Anything but that._

 

_Liar._

 

The claw sunk downwards. It didn't ever touch bare skin so much as it melded into it, as though the body were not solid flesh but primordial soup in a finite form, oozing around the demon's wrist, unresisting as it plunged all the way inside.

 

He writhed as the claw slid up slowly, hipbones and stomach giving way just as easily, skin rippling like water as the claw glided towards its destination. It reached his ribs and he arched his back, keening, lips parted in a desperate pant as the claw moved steadily upwards.

 

_You're enjoying this._

 

_No, stop._

 

_Masochist._

 

_Who the hell enjoys having their internal organs jostled by some perverted monster?!_

 

It was illogical. Organs weren't supposed to have nerve endings, were they? But he could feel the fat fingers brush past them, could feel the sharp edges of claws pinch – and his entire body jerked as they did so, chest heaving, body splayed out as if his limbs could escape one another, detach from his body and the feeling at its locus.

 

The claw stopped at his chest.

 

_It's not a pound. But it'll do._

 

The claw clamped around an organ and tugged. He grunted at the sensation, hips arching, away, away, he wanted to get away but it was like he was nailed to the spot. The claw tugged again, wore the tendons and veins connecting the organ to the rest of the body thin. His teeth dug into his lower lip. He scrambled for purchase beneath himself, a small keen resonating from his exposed throat.

 

The claw clenched into a tight fist. He could feel his pupils shrink in response.

 

_No, stop-!_

 

The claw gave a final, violent tug.

 

A brutal scream tore its way out of his throat as the demon messily removed his heart from his chest, his own blood splattering in an ugly pattern on his chest and stomach as it pumped, spurting blood into the abyss in the absence of veins –

 

♠

 

You wake with a start. You're surrounded by the color green, and it turns your stomach as the lingering emotional sensations of your dream fail to dissipate. Slowly, you wade through your blankets, sheets, thick quilt and emerge into a room basked in light. You look around. You can see figures bustling around in the garden below your massive window. Next to the window is your damaged desk, covered with your paper, your pencils and paints and crayons, your... your new possessions.

 

Barely awake, head heavy with sleep, you can admit it to yourself. That this room has become yours, that this is the way your life is going to be, for. For a while.

 

You groggily slide out of bed and make your way towards the wardrobe. You open the doors and stare. Everything inside is purple. You hardly think the demon has anything to do with organizing petty necessities like this – if you had to guess, you'd say Snowman is probably the one who has been providing clothing for you. She clearly has taken pity on your homesickness (where the hell is this mansion? Are you in Derse, Prospit, or off the continent entirely?) and made sure your wardrobe is representative of the sorts of things you're used to wearing, even if everything is a bit less dramatic and metaphorical prince-like.

 

Eventually, you pull something on. In the middle of changing, you remember how your door was demolished, and glance over at it without really caring if it _is_ still off its hinges, if people can see you changing. To your surprise, it seems to have been restored in the middle of the night. A shiver runs down your spine at the thought of being so off guard that construction could go on feet away from you without you noticing. Maybe you're losing your touch.

 

When you've finally finished dressing, you walk over to the door and test the handle. Yet again you find yourself surprised when it proves to be unlocked. You pause, your hand on the doorknob, before deciding to look out into the hallway. It is the first time you've gotten to get a good, long look at it.

 

There is a long, flat stretch of landing. The walls have no doors or windows. Across from you, several feet away, are railings, on either side of a staircase. Your room is the final destination at the top of the staircase. Your room is also the only one on this landing, as glancing to either side of you reveals dead ends. (You remember the garden located outside your window, the green walls surrounding it, and remember it is enclosed in a courtyard.)

 

To put it simply, you've been living in a tower.

 

You step out into the... not quite hall to see if you can descend the stairs and see the rest of the house (the house is several stories high, judging by how far below you the garden is, so there must be several full floors below you...?) when one of the Felt comes up the steps in front of you. He's a small fellow with a round face, and a violet bowler emblazoned with the number four perched on top of his head.

 

“Oh! You're awake!” He smiles cheerily at you, holding up a tray. “This is for you!”

 

No shit, you think. “Thanks...” You're not sure if you should ask about the door or not. He's greeting you as though there's nothing wrong about you being out and about, but then again these guys aren't the sharpest knives in the drawer, so...?

 

“You're allowed to look around,” he says, answering the most prominent question on your mind. He shoves the tray into your hands. “My lord says you can do whatever you please and explore as much as you like. You _will_ be living here, after all.”

 

You frown. “And what if I try to escape?”

 

He chuckles merrily. “Oh, but you won't actually be able to. So there's no danger!”

 

You think it must be drafty in here. You just got a chill.

 

The little green person waves to you as he walks away. “If you get tired of sink baths in the powder room you've got in your room, there's a real bathroom just a floor below you, with a wonderful bathtub!” He beams. “It's so nice to have you here with us, sir!”

 

♥

 

You take his suggestion and bathe before you explore the rest of the house. The floor below you is a real, full one, with long halls winding off and into the distance of this gigantic manor. You glance warily down one stretch before going to knock on doors, looking for the bathroom. The second door you try is unlocked and has no response. You enter it shoulder first, so the front of your body can be shielded if needed.

 

It is the bathroom. It is a wide, refreshingly non-green room. It's yellow – not a blinding yellow like the buildings in Prospit, but a soft, buttery color – with white tiles and many gold-rimmed mirrors. There are two portraits of chubby, human babies with wings... cherubs, you think? Old human lore has been long eclipsed by that of other cultures; Dave and Rose could barely answer any of your childhood questions, such as where humans came from, if carapaces were from the Skaian continent, and trolls from Alternia. They'd grown up in Skaia, as had their (now estranged) family for generations. In any case, you cringe at the sappiness of the bathroom's décor and decide that someone other than the demon, definitely, had a hand in this room's interior decoration.

 

You lock the door securely behind you. However, having seen the demon demolish one incredibly heavy door, your eye constantly darts back to it during your bath.

 

At one point while you are scrubbing down your arms, you think you catch a movement to your left. With a start, you whip around, eyes leaving the door, only to realize that it is only one of the mirrors. A big one, against the wall, overlooking the bath. You shake your head, exasperated with your own jumpiness.

 

You sink into the water, all but your neck submerged, and lean your head against the brim. Normally you'd prefer a shower, and many times you've tired your companions with your rants about how awful baths are. However, after having access to nothing but washcloths and a sink for the past week, a hygiene-obsessive person like yourself couldn't be more grateful for a real wash, even in a tub. In fact, the heat of the water is clouding more than just the mirrors; your mind begins to wander the longer you soak. You might even dare to say this is downright pleasant, downright... relaxing.

 

Your eyes start to flutter shut.

 

Have you thought of them at all since you left? Dave, Roxy, Rose all flash in your mind, no, meander, passing through easy, like a _stream, their images flowing, through you, and they speak in whispers to you young_ _Prince of dirt, aren't you, stewing in your own filth your empire has already crumbled to dirt what with how you've abandoned it nothing but a lapdog are you drawing pretty pictures on demand you pretty little nursemaid you prince of **nothing** –_

 

You wake with a start before the dream can completely grab hold of you. Without pause, you yank what you hope is a clean towel from the rack and release the drain, not bothering to stop and watch the water circle as you get out. 

 

You've had enough relaxing. Now that you're free to wander it, you need to get to scoping out the house, mapping its innards meticulously so as to properly plan for your future escape. Who even knows how long you have, and if the demon will faithfully return for another story tonight, even after you so infuriated him?

 

Ten minutes later you are dressed and presentable enough to go exploring. You start with the floor where you bathed, figuring you'll move across and then make your way down each floor.

 

You knock on doors. When there is no response, you listen through the door and then let yourself in accordingly. In this hall, you find an empty parlor and two personal quarters that you suppose must belong to members of the Felt. You inspect these places carefully, checking for windows (oddly, there are none), looking for weapons (if there are any, they're hidden quite expertly), and replacing any items you move out of curiosity. When people actually answer your knocks, however, you retreat, replying “Nothing,” to smarmy demands of “What do you want?!” After exploring these three rooms, you run out of unlocked, unoccupied places to look, and so you head towards where the hallway bends.

 

Around the corner is a large mirror mounted on either wall. That's it, for about three yards, but on the other side there's a whole other mess of rooms. Once or twice on your way to the new cluster of rooms you glance behind you warily, feeling as though you're being followed. It's probably just paranoia, or maybe one of those Felt guys got irritated enough to trail you. Not like you'd be able to tell – every fucking thing in this house, including them, is green.

 

You consider heading back to the bathroom just to bask in the company of a different color, but then decide that getting to know your battlefield is more important than however much the décor annoys you.

 

There are ten doors. Not a single person replies to your knocking, and not a single door is unlocked. Things English doesn't want you to see, or just personal rooms? And just how many green guys live here? _Why_ do they live here? In addition to the rooms, there's an alcove with a stairwell heading down. After a sour, accusatory glance at the rows of closed doors for their fruitlessness in this expedition, you go downstairs.

 

♦

 

“Oh my god.”

 

You are standing on the threshold of the most beautiful room you've seen in ages. It's not prettily decorated, and the color scheme isn't terribly original (see: green, like the rest of the house). Actually, it's a bit of a dark hole, and there are things strewn all over the place. But the point, the reason you've instantly fallen in love with this room, is because it's a sewing room.

 

You step inside. It's a wonderland. There are rolls of fabulous fabric of all qualities – is that silk? Oh my god, how can they even get ahold of that during wartime?? The sewing machines, of which there are several, all seem to be high quality. Little else in the room is well-kept, but they are clean and have obviously been lovingly tended to.

 

“Have something that needs a mend?”

 

With a start, you turn around to see another of the Felt. He has a big jaw and a scar over one of his eyes. The undamaged one squints at you, not with genuine meanness, but the sort you'd expect from a grisly old man. You shake your head, “No. I'm sorry, I came in because no one answered, so I figured...”

 

“It'd be safe to snoop around?”

 

You stand awkwardly until he gives a hapless wave of the hand. “It's alright. I was so focused on this project, I didn't hear you. You can stay, though. I keep the door unlocked because those idiots are constantly tearing their good suits, need my help all times of the day – they roughhouse for a living, though, so it's understandable.”

 

You take a tentative step forward, gesture. “And what, uh. What is this project?”

 

“This?” He raises up one arm of a neon green piece of clothing. “Standard suit I mentioned. Belongs to Cans'.” He rolls his good eye. It's a slightly jarring sight. “Big, reckless guy. It's never the person he's fighting who messes up his clothes, either, it's all him showing off with the muscles and whatnot.” He shakes his head, irritated. “Whatever. We got _some_ extras for when the damage is particularly bad, but English is cheap and a damn stickler for dress code. Well – maybe not cheap,” he relents, when your eye wanders back over to the silk, “but his primary concern is on his own clothes being kept in perfect shape. So we got plenty of plenty materials for _him._ He's so strict about everybody dressing alike, but blows a gasket when I point out it's kinda' hard to keep a bunch of mobsters in nice threads when they're always tearing and bloodying them up! But I don't want to bore you. You need help with something, fine, and if you don't, wander in whenever you like, just don't be a bother. Got it?”

 

You nod. You have a sudden flashback to conversations with Snowman and have to suppress a smirk. “I don't need any help. I'm sorry to be in your way.”

 

“Eh, it's. It's whatever.” He seems almost disappointed to see you go. You think of Snowman again, and wonder if he, too, is bereft of good conversational partners. The way he talks, you can start to finally see why; the rest of the Felt sound like a bunch of thugs. With the war in Derse, you yourself know what it's like to be surrounded by small-minded, violent men for long stretches of time.

 

As you trod out into the second floor hall, you think how you missed more than intelligent company this past week. Hell, since even before the war, you haven't been able to sit down with a needle and thread and just _make_ something, just because you felt like it.

 

Your mind drifts to childhood, sitting by Rose's side on the sofa as she showed you how to sew little, simplistic things. Then, when you'd gotten the hang of it, she'd let you take over, all by yourself, and read a book or work on projects of her own. Sometimes, if she was busy enough, you took up clothes-mending duties for her. That was back when your family lived in the towers in the castle, back when Dave was a knight in the royal army and Rose was the high seer.

 

Something in your chest lurches at the thought of them. You hate feeling nostalgic like this – that's not why you're fighting for reform in Derse. That shouldn't bewhy you're fighting for reform. Silly memories like that are nothing but personal affect, abstract symbolism for an old Derse that's more of an ideal than something that ever did or would exist. You were a child of privilege, of nobility. The other humans in Derse, your lowblood followers, the very few carapace pawns who find your cause palatable, they didn't live that life. You shouldn't be fighting for your own gain. Your should be fighting for the _greater good._

 

If you ever get to fight again, that is. You head towards a room across the hall from Stitch's hideaway and knock. No answer. But like the sewing room before it, it is unlocked. So, with a cautious peak inside, you deem it safe (enough), and allow yourself to explore

 

♠

 

Half an hour later, you're descending the stairs to the first floor. You've barely been able to get into any rooms, and this place has a surprising lack of windows. Nearly every hall was bereft of them, and considering the gigantic one in your room, you wonder if they're a feature limited to personal rooms.

 

(In contrast, there is an unnerving number of mirrors. They are unframed, and often stretch from the top of the wall to the bottom. The halls seem bigger, fuller with them mounted there. You try not to look at them too closely whenever you walk past.)

 

You find yourself in what seems to be a parlor. You realize you don't know what time it is, and start to look for a clock, but there are none to be found. Odd. Come to think, you don't remember seeing any clocks since you started your search. In any case, you allow yourself to wander on. The ground floor appears to have more wide, open rooms with spacious doorways, as opposed to small (well... as small as they can be in a mansion), personal quarters that can be locked off. You remember the garden, and allow yourself to perk up: maybe the ground floor will be far more profitable. What were you expecting to find upstairs, anyway, windows to climb out of? There are none. This way you'll get to see all of the entrances. Maybe you can figure out when they're unguarded.

 

It's bizarre, how you've encountered so few people today. Aside from Stitch and an angry guy or two behind a closed door upstairs, you haven't really _seen_ anybody. Especially not in the halls. Didn't Snowman and that Felt guy this morning insist you'd never escape? They must be using reverse psychology; you don't see how you _couldn't,_ now that you're free to wander the mansion as you please, as empty as it is.

 

_Terribly easy, wouldn't it be? Almost **too** easy!_

 

You stop in your tracks. The thought came unbidden, almost eerily so. You glance around, as if to make sure you're alone (of course you are, silly, didn't we just establish that?), and then go on your way. Cautiously. Because your... subconscious is right – it could be that this all isn't as easy as it appears.

 

Wow. No wonder you nearly fell asleep in the bath. You're rattled, aren't you, tired? Understandably, you've barely slept. If only the sun hadn't woken you so early this morning, if only you weren't in the midst of a personal tragedy.

 

You walk off in what you think is the relative direction of the garden. You could really go for the fresh air right about now. 

 

♠

 

You have underestimated your ability to navigate this place. To your chagrin, what you have been exploring up until now is merely one wing of the house. As you emerge into a gigantic hall four stories high with a grand, dramatic staircase, you realize that you have barely made a dent in mapping out this mansion's innards. This place is _huge._ You nearly spin as you walk through the hall towards what you suppose is the east wing. You don't want to ascend the massive staircase. You suppose if the demon lives anywhere, it's probably in the northern (where are you getting these directions from) wing of the house, given how conspicuous and kingly those stairs are (like something out of a castle) and so you're just going to explore the east wing because god damned if that main entrance isn't probably armed with all sorts of goons outside. Glancing at the intricately carved double doors, you think to yourself that you can't be stupid enough to try it until you know for sure it's safe – what's the point of escaping if you _die?_ At this point, if you wanted to try the death escape, you could simply throw yourself out of your nice, big, bedroom window. If you can manage to break the thick glass with your weight, that is; it remains bolted shut.

 

You leave the main hall and enter the east wing just in time to see him.

 

He smiles sweetly at you, gestures you to follow, even, and then prances down the hall, away from you. You are running after him before you even realize you are moving.

 

Flashes of yellow hair and purple clothes beckon to you as you give chase down the hall. You don't understand why he's here; you don't understand how this is possible, yet it is! He turns a sharp corner and you dart after him, knocking into an extremely heavy Felt guy on the way, he grunting “hey” as he and his partner frown at you in unison, bustle on.

 

He's cackling now as you follow him, you swear to god, he's running backwards, orange eyes condescendingly watching as you, out of shape, out of practice, out of place try to pursue the far more superior, far faster, far cleverer version of yourself.

 

You're running, around corners, past more unexplored doors, trying to catch up with your doppelgänger, ask you why you're here, now, how, when you're right here, and you're laughing back at yourself maniacally, challenging yourself, mouthing the words _come get me_ and finally you do get close, close enough to touch, "Stop right there!!" you cry, hands reaching out to grasp your doppelgänger's shoulder and –

 

Your hand slams into the mirror with more force than necessary (had you been planning to injure your double, when he'd done nothing to you?). The glass cracks and your hand throbs in a cacophony that jolts you back to reality, and you suddenly feel the burn of several shards digging into your skin. 

 

Pain. Slick, like a silverfish making its way through your veins, pain, pulsing in the synapses of your brain. Where are you? Scattered on the floor, a million reflections, not a single one laughing.

 

You stare at your hand, the gash on your knuckles, glass splinters glittering in it like flecks of gold in a mountainside overrun with lava. You're aware it hurts, but you're still so confused. How the hell did you end up chasing your own reflection? How could you mistake it for anything but? (You don't remember making any of the facial expressions you saw. You must have seen wrong. Why would you laugh at yourself?)

 

Clutching your hand, you make your way back down the hall lined with mirrors. The Felt guys, wherever they (just one, reflected?) went, haven't reemerged at the sound of you having destroyed a mirror.

 

Deciding your little tour of the mansion may be done for the day, you make your way back towards your room. You should look for a kitchen, sink. A bathroom? Yes, you'll go back to the bathroom. You pick a splinter from your hand as you go and wince, tossing the bloody thing behind you where it turns the carpet brown. Glancing at the wound, you can't see bone. You wonder how long until the blood starts to really drip, though. You wonder what a trail you'll leave behind you. You wonder what's getting into your head, and how long you have to escape before it destroys you.

 

♠

 

You avoid a blood trail by wrapping your hand up in the hem of your shirt until you get back upstairs. It hurts like hell, but you've traveled farther with worse wounds. Probably. You're a soldier. Well. A tactician. A leader. An assassin. You've experienced worse. Definitely. Almost definitely.

 

You spend a long time in the cherubic bathroom hovering over the sink, picking the miniscule shards out of your hand. You think you've got them all. You hope to _hell_ you've got them all, but it hurts too bad to tell. Your hand is purpling rapidly (as is to be expected – the mirror was mounted on a _wall,_ after all, and you hit it pretty hard). With a scoff, you think that you won't be able to draw much for the demon while your hand is so painfully bruised, even if he's still willing for you to do so after your recent fight.

 

Quickly sobering, you grow furious with yourself for impeding your future ability to escape with such a severe injury – hell, for possibly crippling your future wielding a _sword._

 

Your head itches. Not the outside, but the inside – like it's stuffed with something. You're going crazy from being cooped up, that's all. You just have to snap out of it. 

 

You wrap up your hand in one now utterly ruined white towel. You then retreat back to your room, but not before checking the hall to make utterly sure it's clear.

 

♣

 

You decide that a nap might do you well. Perhaps you were wrong to rush to business this morning – you _are_ running yourself ragged over this... everything. Being married to a demon, escaping said marriage. You're not too fond of that magic shackle Snowman showed you, either. No – the best thing for you right now would be to regain some strength. Maybe you could save exploring for later. You could even ask Snowman for a tour. You're sure she'd be ecstatic to, and anything she didn't want to linger on would be a red flag for what you should investigate afterwards on your own.

 

Assuming there is a later. How long will the demon stay away? For all you know, he could be back tonight.

 

Burrowing your face into a pillow, you decide you don't care. Even half asleep, your brain briefly acknowledges that the demon probably doesn't give a shit about the story anymore, given that his current goal is to keep you imprisoned forever. There will be plenty of time to finish that stupid story, if you even have the will to then.

 

Laying on top of the bedspread, fully clothed, you begin to dream.

 

It must be influenced by your bizarre... stress hallucination today, because you are watching yourself, standing before you in your room. You're running your fingers along the bed, moving, backwards, away, strutting through the room to lean back on the wall. You smirk at yourself. Cross your legs. Begin to speak.

 

_How long are you going to goof off before you get yourself out of here?_

 

_Prince of nothing._

 

_Your revolution is crumbling as you sit here. Already they are looking for an heir, but who wants to inherit an empire of dirt?_

 

_Are you waiting to be rescued, prince? Do you think daddy's going to rescue you, like you hoped when you were a child? Or, no – you're hoping **Jake** will come for you? You want to lay in bed and cry like some damsel in distress and wait for that boy to vanquish your captors and carry your limp form back to safety. You pathetic, feminine thing – how can you possibly think yourself fit to save Derse when you cannot even **save yourself?**_

 

_**Stop!** _

 

The large, hanging mirror plummets to the ground, shards scattering all over your room. Clutching your hands, hissing through your teeth, you come to the realization that maybe you weren't sleeping as you originally thought.

 

The crash – what, with the weight of the mirror's frame – is thunderous, and people come running. Snowman throws the door open, her eyes widening when she catches sight of the mirror on the ground and you hunched, clutching your hand. “Oh my god.”

 

She stands there for a moment, stunned, the Felt member who brought you your food earlier standing behind her with an equal amount of shock on his small face. Snowman finds her bearings, tells him, “Go get help!” To another person to her right, “Grab some towels! No, idiot, there's a bathroom, right in here!”

 

She steps inside and rushes towards you, the other Felt member running to your bathroom. She is kneeling on the floor in front of you, asking for your hand when he shouts, “There's no bandages or medicine in this cabinet-!”

 

“Then go _get some!_ ” she snarls. He tosses her a towel before hurriedly departing. She turns back to you, holding out her hand. “Show me where it hurts.”

 

“I didn't... I don't think I hurt myself too bad.”

 

“Please, Dirk, let me look. If you have a wound, it needs to be properly treated.”

 

After a moment of hesitation (where she glares at you the whole time), you relent, uncurling your hands so she can touch them and inspect the damage. 

 

One slender, black finger gingerly traces a barely formed scab. Small beads of blood have gathered where the wound has reopened. She frowns. “Where are these...?” She glances at your face. “...Are you the one who broke those mirrors on the first floor today?”

 

Mirrors? Plural? Didn't you crack only one? Unsure of how to honestly answer, you shrug. 

 

She lets out a scoff at the gesture. “You don't know? Oh please. I'm not going to rat you out to English, Dirk, I just want you to tell me the truth. We all thought it was Cans.” She chuckles. “He swore he wasn't there at the time, though, none of us believed him. He's so...”

 

Reckless. Stitch had said the same thing. You feel a little bad for Cans.

 

“I broke more than one mirror today,” you quietly confess. It's as close to honesty as you can get without knowing the full truth.

 

“That will be a great many years of bad luck for you, then.”

 

“I don't believe in luck,” you say. She seems to want to reply to that, but the Felt guy she sent for medicine gets back first, waving a tube of ointment triumphantly. He throws it and a roll of bandages to Snowman, and she quickly starts to patch you up. “No glass shards I can see,” she mutters. “Could someone get me a better light?!” Eventually, some bigger guys come to haul the mirror away. Snowman snaps at them for upsetting shards, telling them to be more careful.

 

She places a tender hand in your hair. You've never missed Rose more in your life.

 

“Are you alright?” she asks.

 

“Yes,” you mutter. You shake her head to release her touch and pull your now properly bandaged hand away from hers. You note that the good thing about this catastrophe is that now your hand has been treated and has a chance to properly heal, but... “Is English... going to be around?”

 

“He's going to be gone for a while.” Relief washes over you like a tsunami. It's overwhelming how much better hearing that makes you feel. 

 

She smiles at the obvious change on your face. “So, no,” she says, pointing, “you don't have to worry about drawing with this hand.” She laughs humorlessly. Her face is oddly tender. “This reminds me so much of her.”

 

Well, you're not the only one reminiscing, it seems. At the realization she's spoken out loud, she presses a hand to her mouth, takes a deep breath, takes it away. You decide not to pry.

 

She pats you on the shoulder in a detached, vaguely masculine way. “Well. I'm sure you had your reasons, for. Destroying things. I won't tell anyone you broke the ones downstairs. Cans will live with a bit of grumbling from the guys who have to fix them up; so long as we don't let English know.” She looks strangely distant as she talks, voice heavy with something you cannot name. Everything about her right now is off. 

 

You swallow. Maybe it's okay to confide. A little. You just won't make a habit of it. “I feel like I'm going crazy,” you mumble. “I don't know why I broke those mirrors. There's no. Cryptic tactical advantage to that. I just had an episode, and I lost myself, and...”

 

“Dirk.” She grips your right hand, your good hand, in hers. “It's going to be okay.”

 

You're surprised by her interruption. You gently squeeze her hand back.

 

“You don't know that.”

 

“I do. It will be. Dirk.” She grips your hand tighter. “You have to get ahold of yourself. Don't let this place destroy you. You need to be strong. Please, trust me.”

 

You don't break eye contact until someone comes to clean up the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand this is where the fic starts to momentarily lose its sense of humor.


	5. Pound Per Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourself. Shit's about to go down.

Four days later, English is still gone. You feel both consumed with fear and resigned concerning his return and your fate. Even after scouring the building, you've found no way out. The front door, as you thought, is locked, and heavily guarded. The garden, enclosed on all sides by the mansion, is your only source of fresh air.

 

No one would let you into the kitchen. Every Felt member was required to lock their door when they weren't inside. The house seems desperate to keep you away from sharp objects, both, you suspect, to keep you from killing them and yourself.

 

Your only hope at this point is that one, the glass on your bedroom window isn't unbreakable, and two, that a four story fall will be enough to kill you. Despite being known for your noble, warrior-like code of conduct, you find yourself placing this plan in the farthest, darkest corners of your mind, to linger on less and less. Logically, you should be acknowledging that your situation is hopeless, and end your life before you are humiliated. But you haven't really been yourself since you got trapped in this place, and so a small part of you clings desperately to the lie that you can still save yourself.

 

Your attempts at blind optimism remind you much of Jake. It hurts your chest just to think about him. You hope to the powers that be, to every last writhing tentacle and heretic troll in the supposed afterlife, that he is still alive and well.

 

Snowman hasn't been her usual chatty self. She says the same thing every day that she did after the monster first proposed; that escape is impossible, your friendship with her inevitable. (As though they're connected, somehow.) And you, too, reply the same as you did the first time, telling her that you're sorry you cannot trust anything she says.

 

♦

 

Snowman bursts into your room, her expression wretched. “Dirk. He's here.”

 

Slowly, you lift your head from your arms. You needn't ask her what has her looking like that. You get out of your desk's chair, make your way past the newly repaired mirror, start to move out the door without a word to her, but –

 

“Dirk.” She grabs your arm. “Listen very carefully. I cannot say much; if we take too long, he'll get suspicious. But I have to tell you, Dirk – you must _remain calm_ when we arrive downstairs. Got it?”

 

You yank your arm out of her grip. “Of course. I'm always calm.” You push past her. “Now, will you kindly escort me to my death, like you've no doubt been asked?”

 

She hurries after you without quite catching up. “Of course he won't kill you-”

 

“I know, but you're quite the fan of metaphors, so I figured you'd appreciate the comment.”

 

She is quiet as she catches up. “...Yes. Well. Metaphorically, yes, you're certainly going to die, but I doubt that he will actually. Well. Physically hurt you. But there are lives on the line, Dirk, so please, be very, very cautious and do _not_ fall for his games. If you know what's good for you, you'll give in without making a scene.”

 

You glance at her, avoiding the gaze of the two mirrors mounted on the third floor's wall. She is staring straight ahead, avoiding you and them both. “Did you just say lives are on the line?” you utter. “ _Whose?_ ”

 

She purses her lips. “I was hoping you wouldn't ask me that.”

 

♠

 

The main hall is decked out in streamers of white and blue so tattered that, while they stand out amongst the mint green that every inch of the hall is painted, they hardly freshen it up. The demon stands before the grand staircase with his arms open, as if to say, _behold,_ the large, golden scepter he used to knock you and Jake out clutched in his hand like a that of a king.Beside him are six people: three are Felt you haven't seen before. They are dressed, quite absurdly, in tuxedos. And they have their rifles cocked at three human hostages.

 

Blond human hostages. Your stomach sinks.

 

The demon notes your entrance. “Maid of honor. I see you've brought the bride!” Snowman doesn't return his smile.

 

You step forward, trying to keep your expression straight, but he can probably smell the shock and terror on your skin. "What is this? How dare you involve them!"

 

He grins at you. "I'm not such a cruel master. That I wouldn't let your family participate. In the happiest day of your life."

 

Your father, Dave, and your mother, Rose, struggle in their bonds. Your sister Roxy, only three years your junior, stands still beside them, eyes darting between the demon, the gunmen, and you. All three of your family members have their wrists bound and are gagged. They are still wearing the usual marks of nobility, despite having been exiled from the royal court when Her Imperious Condescension seized the throne years ago. In other words, they are dressed formally, as if prepared for this very occasion.

 

You haven't the faintest idea how the demon could have possibly gotten his hands on them – did he find the resistance's headquarters? Did he attack them in public? _How is this possible?_

 

“Are you _insane?”_ you cry. “How dare you mock me, how dare you put my family in danger!”

 

“Dirk. I thought you were smart.” The monster rears up to his full height. Even given that the ceilings are high throughout the house, you can see why he chose to have this spectacle here, in the main entrance, given its enormity. “Did you really think. I was going to take no for an answer?” He holds out one gigantic hand to you. “This is merely my way. Of forcing your hand.”

 

You resist the urge to gape in horror. Only an idiot opens their mouth when they don't need to. You leave Snowman behind at the entrance of the wing and march forward. “Let them go. Right now. They have nothing to do with this.”

 

“Yes. Of _course_. Right away,” the demon mocks. “ _Please._ Like you can just talk in a scary, commanding voice. And get me to do your bidding.”

 

You are only about ten feet away from him now. You keep your face composed, threatening. “God damn it English, you release my family or I swear to _god-_ ”

 

“YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS. HOW TO RAISE HIS VOICE!”

 

Everyone in the room visibly flinches. You halt, feeling the command you were about to issue die, pathetically, in your throat.

 

The monster lets out a low, pleased laugh at your cooperation. Satisfied he has control of the room, he reaches over, snatching Roxy from her Felt captor with the hand not holding the scepter. She struggles in his claws and you start to move forward, again, resisting Snowman's hand when it snatches the hem of your shirt. You shake her off, but the demon snarls, “I will kill her like a _dog_. Do not come any closer.”

 

Gigantic green hands encompassing her neck and shoulders, he thrusts Roxy forward. “This bitch,” he chuckles, “looks familiar. Scribbled multiple times by your own hand. Roxy, correct?” The demon cocks his large head. “No; no, I recognize this pretty face. From someplace else.” He rubs one finger under her chin. Without meaning to, she trembles in his grasp, her face angry and defiant.

 

“Hmm... what could I be thinking of? Is it the family resemblance?” He looks at her face, then the other hostages', and smirks. “You Striders all look alike.”

 

You return his smirk with a heavy glare. The demon, unbothered by your lack of enthusiasm, continues with his charade, extremely amused.

 

“Oh – I know!” he exclaims in mock realization. “She's the thieving little rogue working under the resistance. Stealing from the empire. Giving to the destitute. How heroic. How romantic. How...” He traces one sharp nail along her throat, as if to slash it. “...illegal.”

 

“Don't,” you beg.

 

“You mean you don't believe in an eye for an eye? Or a loaf of bread for a hand? Or an entire building of highbloods for the revenge of your lowblood friends?” He's talking about your exploits in war now, acts of terrorism commanded by you.

 

He yanks back Roxy's head, baring her throat for you, willing you to imagine the mark he'll put there, her blood and her spine gaping from the hole he will tear. “Or, no – how did you kill my queen's agent, again?” the demon thunders. “You beheaded him, right? Well, well, well, if we're going to keep this trade-off fair...”

 

Roxy meets your gaze, her eyes desperate. There is a commotion, and you look just in time to see Rose and Dave, who have been struggling in their bonds, knocked to the floor, rifles at their necks, green boots on their backs to keep them in their place.

 

“But she has taken so much from the empire,” the demon breathes, teeth dangerously close to her neck. “At this point. The only trade close to fair. Would be her pathetic life – ”

 

“Just tell me what you want from me!” you cry. “Just don't hurt them, please –”

 

Laughter erupts from the demon's chest. “I don't know. Do I want anything you can offer? I am quite enjoying. The expressions on your face. As I hold your family hostage.”

 

The monster's face moves quickly, rearing back and then diving down, sharp jaws heading straight for Roxy's throat. It is a chaotic instant of pupils constricting, Rose and Dave's muffled screams and your heart nearly coming to a stuttering halt –

 

“ _Wait!”_ you scream. The demon stops just short of sinking his teeth into her flesh. She trembles uncontrollably, chest heaving as if to celebrate that it can still consume air.

 

“My life! My life, for theirs –”

 

The demon clicks his white, forked tongue. You realize that he has succeeded. You, one who prides himself on composure, have completely unravelled. You cannot hide your emotions from him. You cannot play your way out of this on the notion that it doesn't bother you, you can no longer retain the illusion of control over the situation with a hard glare and an air of angry calm. He has the edge.

 

“One for three?” he chuckles. “That doesn't sound very fair... Think of something else, Strider. And I will think. Of letting your family go.”

 

No. No, no, that was what he wanted, wasn't it? You? What are you supposed to offer, now that he's rejected that? You feel like you're turning your mind inside out just for a sign, an idea, a plan of some sort to make this horrible situation all go away. Your heart pumps so desperately in your chest you can actually feel the blood pushing its way through your veins... You can feel your veins...

 

Your nightmare. What was it he'd said in your nightmare? The demon is looking hungrily at Roxy again and oh god, what did he say?! A pound? A pound of-?!

 

“A year of my life!” you shout, suddenly. “My life, my undying loyalty, a year of that for each pound of flesh that you spare them!”

 

The demon grins, all teeth. “Better. Much, much better. Just the sort of clever solution. I'd expect from you, Strider.” He laughs cruelly. Roxy looks at you with eyes, pink, like a trapped rabbit.

 

“But I know your human life spans,” the demon continues. He begins to pace, gripping Roxy in his hand like a rag doll. She is limp, if only out of terror for what punishment struggling will earn. “And I know you cannot live as long as they weigh. Even as thin as they are! This needs to be a fair trade. Otherwise I won't agree.”

 

“Please. Please. ” You hold out your hands, beseeching. “Don't kill them.”

 

“Beg me,” the demon snarls through grinning, sharp teeth.

 

You can feel Snowman grow tense behind you as you lower yourself to your knees. “I am. I'm begging you.” You place your hands on the floor, in a non-threatening position. You will not fight back against the demon... not that you can. “Put her down. Let my family go. Let my family live their lives, every pound of their flesh intact. And you will have my life. And my undying loyalty.”

 

The gigantic hall echoes with the monster's rumbling laugh. “You do realize who you are talking to? Any promises you make me are promises you are forced to keep. As soon as the deal is sealed I own you. And if you don't obey your end...”

 

“I know,” you reply.

 

The demon looks admiringly at you. After a few moments of your weighty glare, he lets Roxy go. She slumps out of his arms, and the unoccupied Felt member, the one previously holding a gun to her head, grabs her by the arm and hauls her over with the others.

 

The demon stalks towards you. “Your life for theirs,” his voice booms. He holds out his right hand. You see two white rings, much like Snowman's, and one gray one. “No. How did you phrase it? A pound of your flesh. For each of their three?”

 

“No, it's-”

 

“Does it matter?” He grins. “Do you accept the terms of this contract?”

 

Rose's eyes are wide with terror as she looks at you. She is warning you; as a seer, a master of magic, she knows the repercussions of a poorly worded deal with a demon. You break eye contact, unable to think about all that she wants you to.

 

“I accept,” you utter, “so long as they get to go back to their lives, never to be harmed or killed by you. And in return, well... you have me.”

 

You start to reach out, to take the hand offered. To your surprise, the demon whips around, claw outstretched to another. “And you. Do we have the blessing. Of the bride's father?”

 

Through Dave's gag, there is a muffled reply that could be anything from a nonsensical growl to an extremely foul demand. The Felt holding him down lands a sharp, painful stomp on his back.

 

“Stop it!” you cry, and the demon turns back to face you, a leer on his face.

 

“Make me,” he says, holding out his right hand. Without hesitation, you take it in yours. There is a blinding light.

 

A strange language rises from the demon's throat. You try to tug your hand away, but you can't. The light is engulfing you, consuming you, and it doesn't hurt, but it feels... _wrong._ The scepter in the demon's hand, it is glowing, a powerful, pulsing orb of energy gathering at its apex. Starbursts of every color pop in your eyes, somebody cries out, your hand sears in a sudden and horrifying pain, and then –

 

The binding spell is over. The demon lets go of your right hand. You lift it to your face, and see that you now have a ring exactly like Snowman's. The skin around it is sore; red, imperfect flesh juxtaposed with the otherworldly perfection of the jewelry. You look at the ring with distaste, finding it ironic that the monster would choose for this contract to take the sentimental shape of a wedding ring, as opposed to a shackle, as it so clearly functioned.

 

The demon turns to the Felt members. “Take them to my chambers,” he orders, gesturing to your family.

 

With a start, you pull your gaze away from your ring. “Let them go!” You scramble to your feet. “You said you would let them go! If you don't hold your end of the bargain, I'll-”

 

“You'll what? You aren't exactly equipped to disobey me,” the demon taunts. Then, moving away from you, his voice lowered to a mutter, “...I will. Don't worry. I just have to make sure. That they never return to this place. Ever again.”

 

“Let me go with you, then, I-”

 

“ _Stay. Here,”_ the demon snarls. Despite yourself, you cower at the sound.

 

Without a backwards glance at his new spouse, the demon lurks away, the Felt members close behind. They haul your family up from the floor, then stab them along with the butts of their rifles. The party ascends the staircase. You watch them go helplessly, trying to figure out if you've failed them when Snowman grabs you by the shoulder and turns you around to face her.

 

“That was so _reckless!_ ” she shouts. “What the hell were you _thinking_ , making a deal on the fly like that?!”

 

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” you snap. “Let my family _die?”_ You can't believe she's coming at you _now,_ after all that's only just happened!

 

“You could've made a better bargain!” she insists, voice getting steadily louder. “You shouldn't have lost control of yourself so quickly!”

 

“Calm dow-”

 

“They can't hear us! Or I just don't care if they hear us! Dirk, dammit, he just dragged your family off, and you have no idea if he's really going to let them go or imprison them forever!”

 

“He can't kill them.” You say this with finality. “He has to keep his side of the contract, right? That's how demons work. He has to leave keep them alive. That's good enough for me.”

 

You start to walk away, but Snowman grabs you again. “Idiot!” she hisses. “He could still torture them, even if he doesn't physically harm their flesh! There are other ways! You shouldn't have given into him so quickly, you should-”

 

“I said he _couldn't harm them-_ ”

 

“That's too _vague!_ You should've been more specific-”

 

“I was desperate and he _knew_ I was desperate, he never would have let me have any more!” you shout, whipping back around to face her.

 

She looks like she is about to scream with frustration, but she stops herself. Teeth gritted, she replies, “That is why you must never _beg,_ Dirk! If you beg him he will never give you any leniency! If you beg him he will only think you are weak and use it to his advantage!” She sighs. “You have to be more careful!”

 

“Don't beg?! Are you telling me it's that easy, that I just _don't beg?_ Even when he's about to murder my sister?” You stamp your foot. You feel like a horrible, stupid child, but you're frustrated. How can she not see this from your perspective? “Are you telling me you've never had to beg him for anything? Was it really always that easy for you?!”

 

“Of course it hasn't!” she cries. “How do you think I know how to advise you?!”

 

Your hysteria dies down as the ghosts of agony strike her face. She knows. Of course she knows what it's like, she's the expert on this world of English's. What does she keep telling you?

 

Despite the overwhelming empathy rising up in your chest, you yank away from her. “That advice does me little good now.”

 

You storm away. You don't pass any clocks on your way back to your room, but you don't need them to tell you that your insignificant little life was destroyed barely within ten minutes. Some prince. Destined for nothingness.

 

♠

 

You smash the mirror to pieces again. No one comes running to see if you're okay. And you are, physically, because you're not bleeding, but your chest feels like it's on fire. You kneel before the mirrorand grip a shard violently in your hand, feeling the blood leak, then pour from the cut as you worsen the wound. You drag the shard down, opening the floodgates, quickening the process.

 

You lay on the floor, waiting to bleed out. You've dreamt of this moment since you were young. Finally, these horrid, cowardly feelings aren't useless to you. You can die fearlessly. You can end this.

 

♦

 

You wake up in a pool of your blood to the sensation of someone shaking you and the sound of sobbing. For some reason, you mouth your mother's name.

 

“Dirk! Dirk, oh, thank every religion you're finally awake!” Cool hands are on your cheeks, lifting your head from the ground, and then there is a dark face smiling down on yours. She smiles a real smile, her eyes crinkling in relief at the sight of you alive. You feel boneless, a mind in a useless vessel, and you squint at her. “Snowman?”

 

“Yes. Yes, it's me, Dirk. Dirk, I-”

 

“Am I not dead?”

 

Her smile falters. “No, Dirk. You-”

 

Finding your strength, you shove away from her, suddenly, only to fall out of her arms and onto your stomach. She stares at you, a little dumbfounded, as you moan, on your chest, with what you presume to be your own blood stretching out on the tiles beneath you. “Why am I not dead yet?”

 

Her mouth opens, then closes again. She seems to want to say something, then stops, answering your question instead. “You can't die, Dirk.”

 

You try to push yourself to your feet. You arms shudder under your weight, but they don't give out. “Don't. Pull that philosophical bullshit. On me.”

 

Snowman stutters. “I-I'm not! Dirk, that's a part of the ring's magic. You can't leave the house and you can't.” She gestures, to the blood, maybe, to you, or to the lethal mirror shards. “You can't die.”

 

“That. Is god damn _ridiculous._ ” You manage to get to your knees. “You can't be immortal. How the fuck did Damara die if-?”

 

“Because he _allowed_ it,” Snowman choked. “She wanted to die for the longest time. She tried to kill herself so many times. And then he finally told her, 'You can die.' And she went willingly.” Her voice hitches like she's trying not to cry. You hope she succeeds; you're not in the mood to comfort anyone else right now.

 

Snowman gets ahold of herself well enough to speak again. “Dirk, we need to get you cleaned up.”

 

“I can do it myself.”

 

“Dirk, I only want to he-”

 

“ _Go help someone else!_ ” You glare at her. “I want to be alone right now, _surely_ you understand why.”

 

She stares at you, eyes wide, before nodding. “Yes. Okay. I'm sorry Dirk, I. I won't bother you.” Steeling her face, she stands. She walks away as composed as can be, leaving you to brood over the implications of what she's told you.

 

You never thought magic could be so cruel, even after you saw the difficulties Rose faced with grimdarkness throughout her life.You cry like a child, the floor at your knees a mess of shine – tears and slivers of glass and wet patches in a pool of drying blood alike reflect your sorry state. You wish you could just die so it could all be over. But it was stupid to even want to die in the first place. You need to live, don't you? You need to make sure your family is okay. You need to keep living, even if you can never see them again, if only to make sure that bastard upholds his end of the bargain. You love your family too much to want to die. Don't you?

 

♣

 

Long after you've cleaned up your body and bandaged your cuts, you get up to pace the room. You're staring listlessly at the mirror and the head-sized bloodstain on the floor when Snowman comes to the door. Through a mere crack in the doorway (she's not looking at you, how kind) she says that the reason she showed up earlier was to apologize. She is sorry for yelling at you after such a traumatic event, and she regrets to inform you that tonight, it is only going to get worse. The demon will come for you soon.

 

You pick up the biggest piece of glass you can find and throw it at the door. She must take the hint; there is movement in the crack of the doorway, and her voice does not return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just laughing my ass off because of the phallic imagery of Lord English's staff like wow sir could you BE more hypermasculine
> 
> No matter how many times I edit this chapter, I can't get it just right. Maybe that's okay – maybe it's okay that this chapter is so bizarrely anticlimactic. I mean, at the end, Dirk comments on how little time it took for it all to happen. Lives are vulnerable. A life can be ruined in almost no time at all, because an individual life – for all its complexity – is ultimately very small and meaningless.  
> Or maybe I'm just making excuses for why this chapter isn't perfect. The end scenes bother me, too – everything bothers me. There's too much plot, not enough symbolism and abstract philosophizing for my tastes.
> 
> Don't let my rambling color your opinion - how did you feel the chapter went down?


	6. The Completion of the Rhetorical Triangle

Breath hitching. A leg bent too far. A swear. A spark of pain.

 

A low chuckle. “I prefer my flesh to be. Naturally bloodier.” A strangled gasp, blood spilling from a shallow cut on a once pale, virgin neck, “But. This will do.”

 

♠

 

He tends to his wounds just as he's always had to – no, too dramatic – as he's _sometimes_ had to, alone. Dirk shivers as the water touches his swollen neck, even though it isn't cold. He keeps running his fingertips over the wound accidentally, feeling the ridges that'll never heal quite right. It's like wearing a collar of skin, one that'll never come off.

 

Hands trembling, he shoves his rag under the water, scrubbing what he can without looking. His shuddering breaths echo off the soft yellow walls, as if the walls themselves are mocking him. D _o you hear yourself? It's like you've never been injured before, it's like you've never done battle before._ And of course, the mirrors, gazing down on him, reflecting his own incompetence back at himself, what a joke, the son of disgraced nobility who fancied himself a prince of Derse, reduced to some monster's _slave_ –

 

With every ounce of strength he has in his arms – as if to remind himself, _I am a warrior –_ he pries at the mirror along the same wall as the bath, sends it careening down where it pops off, suddenly, hits the edge of the tub with a degree of force and doesn't shatter, but cracks. It lays there across the tub, perfectly, as if set up to act as a tray for him to settle his belongings, a book or a cup of tea for a relaxing bath. Dirk has managed to avoid destroying the mirror this time, and finds himself disappointed with the lack of climax to the act. Where he was hoping for a cacophony of glass is merely silence, punctuated by the dripping of the tub's faucet and the sound of his lungs failing to die in his chest.

 

Except for some swelling at his fingertips where he pried the mirror off, his hands are unmarred. Dirk thinks sourly to himself that he's getting better at this. Annoyed, he shoves the mirror with the heel of his hand, and it slides to the floor, thumps, and still refuses to issue forth a satisfying crash.

 

♣

 

After a day of wallowing in misery in the darkness of his covers, Dirk emerges from his room, hoping to sneak downstairs for a quick bite to eat. They'll probably stop sending trays to his room, now that he's not a prisoner, but a full-time member of the house. (Or perhaps they left nothing for him yesterday out of kindness. He'd want to be alone. Maybe the women before him hadn't been hungry the first day, either. He's one link in a chain, after all; he's not an individual, but a contribution to pattern.) He's not looking forward to being seen by others – there's not a single item in his closet that covers up the scar English has left on his neck – but his stomach has grown painful with hunger, and so he figures, for his own good, that he must go downstairs and get something.

 

However, just as he steps outside his door, he nearly trips over Snowman, who is sitting directly in front of it. She casts a tentative smile over her shoulder at him. She is saying something – the tone of her voice seems apologetic – but Dirk cannot hear her. He is too busy staring at the woman opposite him, who is staring just as incredulously back. Her orange horns arch high, marking her for the devil she is, the tyrian-purple veined fins at the side of her head a marker of her place at the top of the Alternian hemospectrum.

 

Sea witch indeed. She stumbles to her feet, sharp teeth clenched, tyrian purple-smeared lips twisted into a manic grin.

 

“What's up, Strider?” asks the current queen of Derse. The former empress of the now collapsed Alternian Empire. The monarch Dirk is trying to overthrow, oppressor of low bloods and humans and carapace pawns alike. The Red Queen. Her Imperious Condescension.

 

Snowman forces a proper hostess's smile and gestures to the troll woman beside her. “Oh, there's no need to panic, Dirk, Meenah here just came because she wanted to pay me a little visit-”

 

“You mean she knew I was here and wanted to fucking gawk,” Dirk snaps, correcting her.

 

Meenah, as Snowman so calls the wicked bitch, lashes back. “Yeah! So what if I did? It's not every day I get to see the biggest dick in Derse get what's coming to him!”

 

“Well, I won't argue that it is the biggest,” Dirk jeers, “but judging by the fact you're here, I'd say you've got no place to mock me. You're just another one of the demon's whores.”

 

“Dirk, I do hope you realize you're insulting me _and_ yourself,” Snowman mutters, but her words are lost (ignored, regardless) in the sheer volume of Meenah's responding jab. “Aw, yeah,” she shouts at Dirk, puffing out her chest, “because me getting reign over a whole damn country's comparable to you being his fucking nanny – I heard about the cute little story you drew for that gigantic brat. How's about you write one for me? About how a monster brought the big man to his knees, and how you probably fucking loved it, what with your Prospitian boyfriend-”

 

Dirk moves as if to lunge, but stops short of Snowman's hand on his chest. She looks desperately between the two, trying to ward off both at the same time. “Hey – hey! Let's settle down, now, there's no need to start a fight! Everyone take a deep, calming breath!”

 

But Dirk can't calm down. Because the gray-skinned woman standing before him, decked out in gaudy bangles and tacky crests and a god-awful tiara, has tried to kill him countless times, and is now speaking ill of his maybe dead boyfriend.

 

“As former queen of Derse, I order both of you to stop wanting to murder each other!” But Snowman's order yields no progress. The current queen and prince continue to damn each other with their eyes.

 

“She's killed my comrades,” Dirk utters, fists clenching. “She's tried to kill _me._ She's destroyed my country, my home!Give me one good reason I shouldn't return the favor!”

 

“I know it's been an entire day, but surely you remember that youare under the power of a _demon?_ ” Snowman hisses, her lithe hand bunched in a fist in his shirt. “With teeth the size of your hand, if that means anything to you?”

 

“Aw, yeah? And what about me?” the current queen snaps, taking an aggressive step forward. “Tell me why I shouldn't just off the brat here and now!”

 

“Because the same demon is dominant over you? Our husband _specifically_ told you this morning not to kill or maim him!”

 

“Wait,” Dirk cuts in, eyes widening in realization. “Snowman, you seem genuinely worried that we're attacking each other – does that mean the rings can't stop us from doing so?”

 

Meenah grins. “It's cute how new you are to this.”

 

Though Dirk has backed down for the moment, Snowman winces, struggling to hold Meenah alone. “The rings can manipulate mortality and restrict mobility, but for all I've seen, it can't revoke free will. You two can still give killing each other the good old college _try,_ but that doesn't mean you won't be punished for it!”

 

“But there's a shell of a _lot_ that falls on the spectrum between killing and maiming!” Meenah cries. She lunges, but Snowman manages to shove her backwards, where she stumbles for a moment before righting herself. Although Meenah stays back after the other woman's display of strength, her chest heaves in anger, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Lord Douchebag didn't give a shit I was trying to kill this punk a month ago, what right's he got to change his mind now?!”

 

Being the only peaceable person in the area seems to be taking its toll on Snowman's sanity. “He can change his mind because he's a demon who can murder a grown woman with his pinky finger! For goodness sake, Meenah, Dirk isn't an enemy of the crown anymore – he's as helpless a prisoner of English as you or me!” (“I'm not that helpless,” he grumbles.) “So sit down, both of you, and play with me! Maybe you can destroy each other in a game of cards instead of, you know. Literally!”

 

After a few more seconds of glaring, Dirk decides to be the bigger (only) man, and unclenches his fists. He lowers himself to sit next to Snowman, glaring at the current queen the whole time as if to challenge her to stop him. Seeing him settled in and determined not to be out-classed, the Alternian woman sits down, too. But not without an ample amount of grumbling. (“Fine. I don't fucking care if I get to shank him or not. I just wanted to see him humiliated. You're not the boss of me, bitch.”)

 

The corner of Snowman's mouth twitches. She seems to be regretting asking for their company, but not wanting to disrupt the peace, she goes along with her original (split second) plan. “Alright. Good. Okay. Meenah, since you dropped your cards – we can see all of them – you may grab some new ones. And Dirk, you can also...” Snowman pauses. Then, wanting to avoid a squabble over the pile, she grabs some cards for him, thrusting them at him face down so she cannot see. “There, those are yours. Now we're all settled in!”

 

The current queen's black jumpsuit clings to her skin like it's painted on, and gleams like it's oil. And Snowman, of course, is just as beautiful as usual in an attractive blazer, a pencil skirt, and some terribly expensive looking heels. Dirk, despite himself, is embarrassed to be wearing the very clothes he's been sleeping in since the monster left him alone, his mutilated neck bared to the world like a symbol of his failure. He'd meant only to go downstairs briefly, running only into some Felt along the way, but now he is forced to sit in his shame amongst his mortal enemy and... acquaintance. Who he's still a little mad at, despite the fact she probably only yelled at him out of concern for his well-being. Whatever. He straightens his posture in contrast to the troll woman's casual slouch, determined to pretend he's utterly unmarred, determined to seem the immaculate soldier even in pajamas, first thing in the morning, having just a day ago watched as his life came crashing down around him.

 

“So!” Snowman cheerily exclaims. “How does it feel to have been made the fourth Lady English, Dirk?”

 

He hesitates to answer. “Well. Not entirely pleasant.”

 

“Way to ask him right off the bat,” Meenah snorts. “Even I ain't that rude.”

 

It takes a moment. With a start, Snowman's eyes widen. “I'm not talking about that! How dare you insinuate such a thing! I only meant to ask how it felt being married _in general,_ not-! Not _that_ part of it!” Looking pissed, Snowman gives a huffy little sigh. “Honestly, Meenah. You're ruining everything already, and you just got here!”

 

“Me?!” Meenah exclaims. “I'm not the one calling him a girl right after some demon fuc-”

 

“Wow, I'm done here.” Dirk starts to stand up. Snowman snatches his wrist. “But Dirk, we waited all morning for you!”

 

“I'm hungry,” he complains. “I haven't eaten in over a day.”

 

Her face is desperate as she looks up at him. “If you think I'm being insensitive, I swear I'm not! I really care about you, Dirk, I want to know how you're feeling!”

 

The first thing to break the quiet that follows is an awkward cough from Meenah. “Let him eat,” she says. “He can play when he gets back.”

 

“Yeah,” Dirk agrees despite himself, pulling free. Snowman's hand slips easily away from his, even if her facial expression is hurt. “I. Promise I'll come back right afterwards. I mean, I have to. You are camped out right in front of _my_ room.”

 

And he does. About twenty minutes later, he comes back with a significantly less painful stomach (and a thoroughly scrubbed face) to two grown ass women sitting on the floor in front of his bedroom door, a deck of cards spread out between them. Snowman sits with her legs to the side, carefully avoiding flashing anyone in her skirt. Meenah is hunched in a very unladylike fashion over her cards, scowling. Dirk is tempted to shake his head, as if the sight before him will disappear as a result, but he knows it won't, and so he doesn't bother expressing much besides a thin-lipped, emotionless stare.

 

“Great! Now we have three players. Just as we need.” Meenah rolls her eyes at the other woman's cheeriness. Snowman ignores her, gesturing to the messy pile of cards. “Grab some cards.”

 

Dirks sits between Snowman and Meenah, sure to be closer to Snowman. Not close enough to imply they are friends, but close enough to remind Meenah he's not a fan of her. “How many?” he asks, hands already digging through the pile.

 

Snowman shrugs. “However many you'd like.”

 

Dirk is tempted to raise his eyebrows, but the only other person there to share his exasperation with is his mortal enemy, and he doesn't want to make it seem like they can start bonding just because they're enslaved to the same guy. Dirk grabs eight cards.

 

“First things first.” Snowman swipes a card from a pile Meenah has face up beside her. The other woman looks irritated by the move. “I think you two should try to get along.”

 

“There's no reason for me to befriend her,” Dirk replies stonily. “From what I gather, we don't even live full time in the same space. We won't be disrupting much by hating each other.”

 

“He started a whole god damn war overthrow me,” Meenah likewise sneers. “And I only just got the throne, like, four fucking years ago! There's no way in hell I'm going to suck up to him just because English tells me to.”

 

Snowman just looks at the two. “Well. In my experience, it's more pleasant for everyone when we try to get along. I'm not telling you to forgive each other, not at all! There is a _lot_ of murder going on between the two of you. I'm only suggesting that the living environment would be more tolerable if you both were to, you know, not try to kill each other over everything. Think of the terrible debris that could be produced if you insist on fighting – English wouldn't hesitate to punish either of you, if his precious mansion came to harm!” She sighs. “Do you two you see what I'm trying to say? I'm merely looking out for your wellbeing.”

 

Meenah eyes Dirk. “...No forgiveness?” she asks Snowman.

 

Dirk scowls back at Meenah. “And no unnecessary friendships?”

 

“Yes,” Snowman says, sounding relieved. “To both of those things. Are we agreed, then?”

 

“I'll consider it,” Meenah says with a shrug, squaring her shoulders. “Same,” Dirk mutters.

 

Snowman's fingers are tight on her hand of cards. “That's the best I'm going to get out of you two, isn't it? You know what? Fine! At least you're making an effort. In time I'm sure you'll see I'm right. I'm always right – aren't I, Meenah? I keep telling Dirk that I am, but he's still skeptic.”

 

She tosses a card into the pile. When she sees Dirk raise his eyebrow at her, she shrugs, smiling. “Bad one. Discarded it.”

 

“...I can see that.” He is about to ask about the rules of the game when a more important thought strikes him. “By the way. This morning, when I first saw you, you called me the 'fourth Lady English.'”

 

“Yes, and I'm terribly sorry I've misgendered you yet again. Are we really not past that, or is your sense of masculinity so fragile?” She clamps a hand over her mouth, removes it. “Oh my god! There I go again! I'm sorry, Dirk, I can't help but just say things sometimes.”

 

He waves his hand quickly, trying to dismiss her comments with a gesture since she won't let him get a word in. “Yeah – yes, Snowman, it's fine, it's fine. What I wanted to ask was who the third lady is, since.” He glances between Meenah and Snowman, both of whose expressions have changed considerably. And clearly not for the better. “...I see the first and second are here with me.” He is suddenly regretting asking. He hopes he hasn't crossed a line.

 

Snowman offers him a tight smile. “Actually, it's the first wife who's missing.”

 

Dirk frowns. Her response was terribly short, and she doesn't seem to want to offer up much more without being prompted. “I'm sorry, is it a delicate subject?”

 

“Yeah,” Meenah cuts in, sifting through her cards. “They was friends and I murdered the bitch, so. Pretty delicate subject, I'd say.”

 

Snowman's eyes get wide again. “ _Meenah!_ ”

 

“What?” The Alternian woman shrugs her shoulders to dislodge some of her hair from them, the sheer mass of it barely shuddering with the movement. “I'm just telling him like it is.”

 

Snowman's jaw clenches momentarily, but after a calming breathing exercise, she regains control over her face. “ _Well_ Dirk, if you'd like to hear a less... _brash_ version of things, yes. Damara is dead. And yes, Meenah killed her, but not willingly.” Then, after seeing the shit-eating grin on said queen's face, “Yes, okay, so maybe she _did_ kill Damara very willingly, but she wouldn’t have if she'd known the predicament she'd find herself in as a result.”

 

“And what predicament would that be?”

 

Dirk regrets asking them to elaborate. It sends the two into a frenzy of talking, each determined to outdo the other. Weirdly recovered, Snowman soars into her usual mile-long elaborations and commentary on things, whereas Meenah cuts in frequently with some crude remark about Snowman's terrible storytelling ability or to tell “how it really went down.”

 

Eventually, Dirk gathers that, one day, fed up with her subordination, Meenah had demanded that Lord English let her go. He was amused by her bravery (“Foolishness,” Snowman corrects her) and decided to make things interesting for himself: Damara, too, had been demanding freedom since she was young. He slated Meenah and Damara to battle to the death, with the victor achieving the freedom she so desired. What Damara realized almost immediately – and Meenah didn't, until the battle had ended – was that the one who survived would be English's slave for eternity, the true loser of the battle. Therefore, the only path to freedom was in death. Damara, having already served a life sentence, was quite willing to finally die, and had been trying to for ages, but without luck.

 

“The ring,” Dirk guesses. “Yes,” Snowman replies, and then falls silent. She was eager to tell Dirk about how valiantly Damara fought (despite, according to Meenah, not actually being there), but now, arriving at the point in the story where Damara has willingly offered up her life, Snowman falls into another melancholy state. Dirk resists the urge to take her hand in sympathy, settling instead for telling Meenah to shut the fuck up, because her piss poor vocabulary is like cyanide to his ears. The two begin to squabble, giving Snowman some distraction from her sadness. Meanwhile, all three players' cards sit, neglected.

 

“But you _see,_ ” Snowman shouts over the others, “Meenah may be evil incarnate, but she's imprisoned to English just the same as we are.”

 

“Fuck straight,” Meenah says, nodding aggressively. She sits back from where she was hollering in Dirk's face. “Except I got more power than either of you. I may be doing a lot of stuff the way he wants, but I run the show, too. I'm the queen of Derse, mothergrubfuckers!”

 

Dirk cringes at the vivid image the bastardized insult produces.

 

Snowman returns her attention to the forgotten game. She takes a card from the pile in the middle, frowns at it, and then tosses it carelessly to the side. Dirk thinks to himself that that's certainly not a legal move in any game he knows how to play. Come to think-

 

“Hey, what game are we even playing?”

 

“It doesn't matter. Try to keep up!” Snowman replies tersely. She flips all of her cards over. After a moment, she looks expectantly at Meenah and Dirk. “Come on!” she says. “You, too!”

 

They flip over their cards. Snowman claps. “My hand is the best! Both of you, draw three cards each.”

 

They do so, if grudgingly. The pile is so spread out over the floor that they manage to collect each of their cards without bumping hands with each other.

 

“I don't get it, though,” Dirk mutters. “If English was so fine with Meenah killing me before, why'd he bring me all the way here? You'd think he'd leave me to her.”

 

“That's what _I_ was saying,” Meenah huffs.

 

Snowman cocks her head. “Would you mind clarifying that for me, Dirk?”

 

“Well. You said he didn't care if Meenah killed me or not before, so. Why did he eventually decide to kidnap me and bring me here, if he was so apathetic to my existence?” He shudders, thinking of the salivating jaws, the melodramatic speech about devouring royalty...

 

Snowman shrugs. “He began actually paying attention to you, for whatever reason, and he found that he liked your style.”

 

He scowls. “My style? What does that mean?”

 

Snowman lets out a harried sigh, as if his inability to understand is quite a burden. “Oh, I don't _know,_ whatever it is men admire about each other. The way you mouth off to royalty – oh, I'm sorry, how you 'handle politics' – or maybe the way you not only stab people to death, but behead them, and then put their severed head on a pike to march with down the streets of the capital. I don't know!”

 

She is clearly not a fan of Dirk's “politics” herself. He says so, drily, and she shrugs. “Whatever. My point is, I think he just wanted to meet you.” She begins flipping through her cards. “It's supposedly why he let me live, anyway. Right after Meenah seized the castle under his command, he appeared to me. He told me the only way I could retain some power in Derse was to do so under his command. I saw what the Alternians did to my army, and I saw them slaughter my court. And I thought, why not?” She pauses to lay down a card, face up. Queen of spades. “Better than dying, which was the other 'option' he offered me. He's the one who came to me – _he_ told _me_ that my administration skills were worthy. He told me that _he_ needed _my_ help.” She smirks humorlessly. “I've always fallen quite easily to flattery.”

 

Dirk lightly touches his cards, unsure of what to do with them. The six of hearts looks patiently at him from the crook of his thumb. “Wait. I'm confused. What exactly does that have to do with me?”

 

Snowman pauses to think, eyes wandering to her right. “What I mean to say is, based on my experience... he probably wanted to enslave you from the beginning, you know. He doesn't care about the revolution going on in Derse, doesn't think squashing it will do any good – I'm sorry to tell you, but he doesn't see it as a threat to his power – and so he just let it develop as it wanted to, for the sake of keeping Derse distracted. You, though – he's always admired strong, male figures. He might have seen himself in you. He might just want a strong, male companion. I don't pretend to know what goes on in that evil, infantile head of his.”

 

“Hey, what game we playing?” Meenah cuts in. Both Dirk and Snowman ignore her in favor of their conversation. She huffs, annoyed at the lack of attention.

 

Dirk frowns at Snowman. “So you don't have any idea as to why I was chosen to be your newest sister-wife.”

 

Snowman, who was pulling a card from her hand, stops. “What I'm saying is, Dirk... he might not have any reason at all. I mean. He has me working arms deals. He has Meenah ruling Derse. But what does he ask of you, other than that you stay here for his entertainment?” She places a card face down.

 

Suddenly, several cards are tossed into Snowman's face. Even as Meenah snickers, Snowman's expression remains composed. Comically so, in fact, save for the way her eyes clench shut. Her lips make no sound, although they begin to move; Dirk realizes she is counting to ten.

 

“What game we playing?” Meenah asks, louder this time. Dirk thinks that if anything comes out of this game, it'll be him growing closer to Snowman simply out of dislike for Meenah.

 

Impressively, Snowman manages to ignore Meenah, instead carrying on with her conversation with Dirk as if she was never interrupted. “Of course, English could still change his mind. He might try to assign you to something, eventually. But for now, you weren't recruited as a warrior. You merely serve as a wife.”

 

It's a lot to take in, and Dirk isn't sure how much of it he believes. He's not sure how much he doesn't want to believe, on principle of logic or pride.

 

Snowman smiles. “It's your turn.”

 

Still confused as to what game they're playing, he decides to just go with Snowman's example and act randomly. He sets out three cards, face down. To his surprise, Snowman snatches them up gleefully. Dirk raises his eyebrows, glancing over at Meenah, who only scowls in reply. “Uh, Snow?” he asks. “Could you please tell me what game we are playing, exactly?”

 

“You know, I have no idea?” Snowman's grin suddenly seems even more manic than before.

 

“Oh, sure. Answer him!” Meenah tosses her cards down ruthlessly. They flutter, in the way paper does. “This fucking blows.”

 

Despite himself, Dirk starts to laugh. He runs his hands through his hair, smirking at the carapace beside him. “Of course. It all makes sense – the grabbing for random cards, the... general nonsense.”

 

Snowman shrugs, scooping up the pile of cards so she can shuffle the deck. “Well, yes! I thought a card game would be a good bonding experience, but I don't know how to play any, so I just made one up as I went along.”

 

Meenah continues grumbling about how Snowman “cheated” and how terrible and unfair the whole experience was. Dirk ignores her, choosing instead to raise a quizzical eyebrow at Snowman. “What do you mean you don't know any card games? Not even Go Fish?”

 

“No one ever taught me any!” she chuckles. She finishes shuffling the deck, slips it back inside its box. “However, if you'd ever like to challenge me to a round, I play a _mean_ game of chess. Well – except when I play with English. Then I lose on purpose. Better a fictional than an actual queen knocked off, hm?”

 

The three get to their feet, Meenah making sure to bump into Dirk even though they aren't sitting all that close together. “That was dumb,” she declares. “I'm going to find some grub. You chumps can stay here and bore each other to death.”

 

“No. Please. Don't go,” Dirk deadpans. It's a far from clever reply, but it encourages a titter from Snowman and a sharp, red-nailed middle finger from Meenah. He is hit, suddenly, by just how bizarre this situation is; he is watching the current queen of Derse sashay away, her predecessor standing at his side, and all three of them are bound by magic to a demonic stranger. Three of the most influential people in Derse. Enslaved to a monster so much more powerful that had he had managed to conceal his existence from them up until the moment he had desired to make his presence known. To think a creature of his size and magical ability had been roaming the land for at least a decade, unbeknownst to anyone, was deeply unnerving.

 

A hand gently touches Dirk's shoulder, returning him to the present.

 

“Dirk.” She speaks in a low voice, perhaps in case Meenah is still within earshot. “I have some news for you about your family.”

 

The tone of her voice suggests that it's good news. Every atom in his body aches to alight with excitement, but Dirk suppresses his happiness until he is sure it won't be destroyed. “Are they alright?”

 

She doesn't smirk. She doesn't show her predatory teeth. She smiles, close-lipped, broadly. “They are, Dirk. I requested to help transport them myself the other night, and I kept a close eye on them afterwards. They're on their way back to the capital where they belong, not a hair on their heads out of place.”

 

Dirk can feel himself trembling. They're okay. The demon stayed true to his contract. They're okay... “The capital?” he hears himself ask. “Why are they...” A comforting thought occurs to him. “I bet Dave wants to amass troops, to storm the mansion. He's never been one to take risks with anyone's lives but his own, so he'll want lots of back-up. I wonder how long they'll take to...” Dirk catches Snowman's expression, and his smile falters. “You don't seem worried. I know you kidnapped them easily – I'm still not sure how, because they're always so heavily guarded – but they aren't people you want as enemies. Snow, why don't you seem worried?”

 

She's looking at him both like he's lost his mind and like she's very sorry for that fact. “I'm not worried... because they're not coming back to get you.”

 

His trembles of excitement turn to shivers of anxiety. He wants to rant, to rave, but he manages to choke out only a short fragment. “They're... not?”

 

Snowman's hand slips from his shoulder to grasp his hand. “No. They won't come back, because they won't be able to remember anything. Their minds were wiped of the prior twenty-four hours. They won't even know that they saw you alive.”

 

It's like all his internal organs have simultaneously shut down.

 

“Oh,” he says, softly. “Oh. Of course. I mean, why wouldn't he be able to wipe their minds with magic? He has the strength to keep three souls simultaneously bound to his will by rings, of _course_ he can destroy people's memories. Of course he would. Why would there ever be the possibility of him leaving a hole in his strategy big enough for me to get away?” Dirk grips Snowman's hand in both of his. His next words barely make it out of his throat. “Why ever?”

 

Snowman shoves the pack of cards into her shirt front so she can freely press both hands to Dirks'. “They're alive. That's important, isn't it?”

 

“Of course. Yeah.” Dirk stares miserably at their interlocked hands. He feels like an idiot for ever entertaining such a broad and illogical hope. “Would you please keep an eye on them for me? Let me know that they're alive, and – and that they're looking for me.”

 

“It'll be difficult,” Snowman warns. “They know how to hide themselves. The information I'll be able to get you will be few and far between.”

 

“English found them before, didn't he? You can do it again,” Dirk replies. “You're my only link to the outside world.”

 

Her fingers begin to gently knead his. “Okay,” she says. “I won't let you down. We'll get through this together, Dirk.” She smirks at him. “Sister-wives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, the fic finds a sense of humor again. I mean, really, the entire situation is absurd – a card game with no rules? Played (somewhat) amicably with the queen who has tried to kill him? 
> 
> This is another chapter I've rewritten over and over to the point where I've wanted to cut it. It's a very important one, though, because it introduces a major character and gives readers more insight to the background plots. Here we meet Meenah, and find out that, much like in canon, her power in Derse is entirely due to English. We also get a bit more info on Damara, whose death serves to fuel Snowman's pain; I didn't want to give Snowman the usual tragic female backstories of dead baby/infertility/abusive husband/childhood rape, and I wanted to subvert the trope of female characters dying to fuel male characters' pain and development.
> 
> Also, remember that “sister-wives” is a term Dirk used first himself. He consented to that nickname, and at the end of the chapter, Snowman is using it affectionately. See the difference in the humor when it is used affectionately, with consent, and when it is used at another's expense? Laughing at vs. laughing with.


	7. Cognitive Dissonance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what?? My dad's working later than he expected, so I'm still home, and I can post this chapter! :) There may still be no update Friday due to my vacation, but I'll definitely be back next Tuesday!

Dirk's life begins to revolve around a mere two emotions: fear, and anticipation. Fear is brought on by the demon: he is often gone for a day or so, to Dirk's mild relief, but he inevitably returns, and with him comes all the dreadfulness expected of him. Anticipation is centered around Snowman: she, too, has an actual job, and leaves for most of the day. Once or twice, she is gone for more than a day, two. However, she always returns, like the rain, a refreshing change to Dirk's otherwise barren life.

 

So empty are his days of any sort of excitement or interest that he can barely bring himself to draw, and so empty-headed are the Felt, that they cannot provide pleasant intellectual company for him. Dirk can't tell if it's because they're genuinely dull or if they've been ordered not to fraternize with him, still.

 

Snowman is the only thing filling Dirk's life with much happiness; she makes sure to bring with her stories of her adventures, anecdotes from her days pushing weapons in the slums of Derse, updates on the war, and other sociopolitical commentary. In fact, their relationship becomes very much an inversion of the one he has with the demon; she is the one who entrances him with stories, if only so he will have something worth living for.

 

Not that he can successfully end his own life. Snowman can only really soothe the severity of the desire for suicide, since it's a hopeless endeavor regardless. He wishes Rose had tutored him in some sort of magic while he was young, but then, not everyone is cut out for magic. What's the use, anyway, of pondering over what-if scenarios where he breaks the spell and escapes? He'll only torture himself that way.

 

Even with access to the entire mansion, Dirk barely strays beyond his room or the soft yellow bathroom the floor below. He wanders out into the garden a few times, but he soon stops going out there. There is little to do other than sit and stare, and the fresh air seems to mock him, reminding him of a world beyond the high, green walls.

 

And so Dirk's primary place of dwelling becomes the hollow beneath his bedcovers. He figures it's fitting he should spend so much time there; after all, it's where he is most useful to English.

 

(It doesn't hurt any less with time. It doesn't get any less uncomfortable, any less frightening. He only gets better at pretending it doesn't bother him.)

 

♦

 

He awakes to the sound of his door opening. He doesn't rush to his feet or, really, bother to get out of bed. Slowly, he emerges from the covers. He moans softly as he stretches. Rubs his eyes and, finally, looks blearily at the sudden source of weight at the end of his bed.

 

He could tell just from the way that she opened the door that it was her. Snowman raises her brow at him.

 

“You are quite a mess, prince,” she scoffs.

 

He shrugs, yawns. “There's not much reason for me not to be, is there? I've hardly got anyone to impress.”

 

Snowman gives a mock gasp, clutches her heart. “I'm insulted! Am I not good enough to please?” She sighs. “But really, you mustn't spend all day in bed. You won't have any strength left. Your whole body will just waste away!”

 

Her voice lilts, sing-songy, as she says it. Dirk hums lightly in response, rests his head in his hand. “Like I said before: no point. Now, have you any stories to tell, or not?”

 

Snowman gives up on lecturing him for now. Instead, she launches into a tale about a raid she led that day with some of the more competent Felt members (“Including, I'm sorry to say, the ones who held your family at gunpoint.” He nods without cringing, feeling detached from the event, although it only happened a week ago). Snowman and her gang had taken over a “secret” artillery being run out of the back of a lowblood radical's hive. Several people were wounded, but no one was killed. “I like to run a clean operation, as you know,” Snowman says with a smug smirk. Her lips fall unexpectedly into a scowl. “However, against my better wishes, I was still advised to report them to Meenah. Hopefully they will get out of there before she comes for them. God knows none of them will survive should she gets her hands on them; as you know, Alternian monarchs are quite a fan of culling, especially untouchables of their own kind.”

 

Dirk listens attentively to the entire story, interrupting only for appropriate responses (the sign for the audience reads laugh, nod, feign disgust) or to ask for clarification.

 

At the end there is quiet, and then Snowman asks if there's anything specific in Derse he'd like to ask after. Dirk asks if his family is alive. After a heavy pause, Snowman says that, judging by the photos of the war, news on battles and protests, and so forth, yes. Dirk asks if there's any chance they are coming any closer to finding him, and Snowman admits she still isn't sure, but it's unlikely. Their information network is tight. And they're not easy to find themselves, so it's not as though she can ask them herself.

 

“What about Jake?”

 

She hesitates.

 

“Dirk. I haven't been entirely honest with you.” She folds her hands in her lap. He straightens his posture, slightly, if only because he feels the tone of the conversation has changed, and he shouldn't be slouched sleepily like he's been. “You see, you're not the only one with limitations of where you can go.” 

 

Her fingers, perhaps unconsciously, clasp her ring. “The truth is, I haven't been able to fully search for Jake because... I can't leave Derse. I've been trying to send the Felt out for him, but God knows they're idiots who need constant supervision to get anything unrelated to brute force done properly.” She sighs, frustrated with herself. “I think he's somewhere in Prospit, but I can't be sure. Like I said, it'd be easier for me if I could search him out directly, but I can't. Not until English desires I go into Prospit for some errand benefitting him, and the chances of that happening are slim.”

 

“How sure are you he's in Prospit?”

 

“There were reports by the border, in towns near the forest where you were picked up, that a man fitting his description stumbled through. He moved on long before we were informed, though, and the trail ends cold there. But still. It's something.”

 

Dirk stares at her. “That's. That's really good. I mean, I'm sorry you can't search him out, but this means there's a possibility he's alive, right?”

 

“English might still decide to hunt Jake down,” Snowman warns. “Frankly, it's shocking I haven't heard him demand any hits on him as of yet.”

 

“No, we don't know that, not yet. This is definitely good news,” Dirk insists. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

 

She smiles at him, albeit a bit crookedly. “I just thought it was silly, you know? Hiding it from you for the sake of pride. I mean, if anyone knows what it's like to be confined...” She trails off. Her smile becomes more genuine; it's not like her usual, confident smirk, but a true expression of happiness. “Perhaps you're right, prince. Perhaps my assumption that your boyfriend's been reduced to vulture food are all wrong, and he's out there, trying to let somebody know where you are.”

 

Dirk's own expression fades. “No,” he says. “That's a little much. With the blow to the head he got, it's a wonder if he doesn't suffer brain damage.”

 

“Oh, now that's terribly dramatic!” Way to ruin the mood, she seems to want to say.

 

“You didn't see him get hit,” Dirk mutters. “Besides, he. Doesn't actually know where I am.”

 

Snowman crosses her arms. Looking at Dirk critically, she says, “You know, you've been optimistic about him being alive all this time. Why the sudden change in tune? You've even got proof now. Not great proof, but proof nonetheless. You should be happy.”

 

Dirk pauses, trying to find the words. “I still have hope he's alive. Especially thanks to that tip,” he relents. “My attitude hasn't changed at all. The truth is, I've simply lost hope of seeing him again. And I have never, ever expected him to be able to save me.”

 

They sit without talking. Snowman, who is sitting rather informally, girlishly, even on his bed, tugs on her skirt, inspects her nails, basically goes through meaningless motions to avoid eye contact and to avoid making any readable facial expressions. Refusal to express any sort of weakness is a defensive maneuver she and Dirk have in common. Meanwhile, Dirk wants to sink back into the covers. It is bizarre, how he has become so familiar with this room, his original prison, that he rather hide here than face the rest of his life. His new life.

 

“Everything is just so pointless,” Dirk sighs. What he wants to say next gets caught in his throat, so instead he says, “There's nothing to do.”

 

Snowman is back to smirking. “Perhaps, but in return, you have his word your family will live. Or at least if they die, it won't be by his hand. You should be grateful he let them live, for the sake of your little revolution.” She pauses. “You should be grateful he wants _you_ alive.”

 

Dirk stares at her. “You're telling me you're happier bowing to the enemy than you'd be dead, with your pride intact?”

 

She chuckles. “Dirk. I was Dersite royalty. Of course I rather live.” Even though her smile lacks teeth, her eyes seem to narrow viciously. “Loyalty, pride, even power – it all amounts to nothing if you die. The loser is not so much the loser when she stands on a battlefield of dead heroes.”

 

♠

 

“Do you love me?”

 

Silence.

 

“I asked _if you love me._ ”

 

“Of course.” No biting remark, no sneer or denial. Just flat acceptance.

 

Satisfied grumbling. “This is why. You are my favorite. Even more so than those wretched bitches.” There is a strangled gasp, followed by the demon's unearthly chuckle. “Having been. Unlike them. An ingenious warrior. You know how to pick your battles.”

 

♦

 

The next day, Dirk is wandering back from the kitchen when he passes by an open door. He peers absently inside, not really thinking, not in any particular rush to get back to his bedroom. Almost immediately, though, he recognizes the room – it isthe best room in the whole house, Stitch's sewing room. 

 

The older man waves absently at Dirk from where he sits, absorbed in repairs on a garish coat. Dirk takes a hesitant step towards him, again overwhelmed with the sight of fabric and thread – again, all he can think of is how long it's been since he's sewn anything. When was the last thing he made, before the assassination? Hell, for all he knows, it was before even that – back when he was at school in Prospit, even....

 

“....You need anything, kid?”

 

Dirk realizes he's been staring at a swath of orange felt. He hesitates, then turns around.

 

“I was wondering... if I could ask to borrow a few things?” When Stitch returns his question with a blank stare, he elaborates, becoming less and less sure of himself. “I don't have any sewing needles of my own, and I can't help but notice some of the fabric you have isn't green, which, how often do you really need that?” The joke makes no impression. “Of course, if you don't like sharing, that's fine, you've probably been asked not to give me needles, anyway.”

 

Stitch shakes his head as if coming out of a trance. “What? No, see, I'm shocked, because no one here likes to do anything other than drink and roughhouse – I'm caught off guard, you know, a boy like you, with a reputation like yours-” He stops himself. Best not to remind the prince of all he's lost, being forced into domestication. “You can borrow whatever you want. I mean, it's not borrowing, since you're not going to return fabric when you cut it all up, I don't expect you to yank the thread out of whatever you've made and put it back on the spool or anything.” He seems frustrated with his own words. “Yeah, yeah, you can borrow whatever you want. Just ask me first.”

 

“You won't get in trouble?” Dirk asks.

 

Stitch shakes his head rapidly. “No! No, the new orders are to let you have whatever you want, but see, I'm not just doing this because I _have_ to or nothing. I'm glad to let you use whatever you want, because it's nice to have some civil company like yourself.”

 

Stitch is more than glad to ignore the garish coat he's working on to help Dirk around the room. He even goes to the trouble to pull out some of the boxes he has stacked under the tables so the younger man can look inside, to see if he fancies anything. There are materials of all quality, all colors in the neglected boxes (except for green). There are even a few sentimental flowery patterns. Stitch confesses that he used to do more regarding personal projects, but the older he gets, the less willing he is to carry his day job over into a hobby. “It's not that I don't like what I do. It's just, you're trying to relax, make a nice shirt, when suddenly some guy comes in with a tear in the armpit of their suit. So you put your nice shirt aside to dig around in some guy's stinking pit, and eventually, you forget about the shirt. Or when you see it, your hands ache just at the thought of picking up a needle again.”

 

Stitch says that his more favorite jobs are when Snowman commissions a gown. That's what he'd wanted to do when he was younger – he wanted to take over his parents' business, to make formal clothes. He figures his skills haven't entirely gone to waste, figures his life is pretty exciting, but sometimes, he wishes for something quieter, something cleaner.

 

Curious still about what the Felt are, Dirk asks where Stitch is from. Stitch says it doesn't really matter anymore; there's no going back once you've signed your soul over to a demon. Might as well live in the now instead of the could've been. “Aw, that's clever – can't believe I thought of that myself. Not bad for an old man without all the fancy blue blood schooling, huh?”

 

♠

 

He hates how these moods have made a comeback. He hates feeling weak, he hates wanting to die. He remembers the first time he felt like this and hates how these feelings haven't gone away with age. (He was seven. Rose and Dave just wanted to keep him and Roxy safe, so they sent them to stay with friends in Prospit to avoid the raging war between the Black Queen and the invading Alternian empress. But even though Dave's friend was nice to him and tried to be like a dad, it didn't feel to Dirk like he was being kept out of harm's way – with war being like a myth in Prospit, out of sight, out of mind – it felt more like being abandoned. It felt like maybe he was a burden – if only he could fight for Derse, like Dave, he'd be useful, he'd be kept. He'd be wanted....)

 

Most of all, Dirk hates how these feelings have returned too late. Just a week ago, if he'd thrown himself out of a window,everything would be better. He thinks that the only thing more detestable than wanting to die as an easy way out is fearing death when death is absolutely necessary.

 

For the sake of his pride, he tries to want to live again. He knows there is no use, anyway, in mourning his life. No doubt, Dave and Rose are tirelessly searching for a worthy heir, someone with the skill to lead the revolution. He figures with how quickly things evolve, several candidates have probably already pushed themselves to the forefront. (He briefly considers Roxy, humorlessly chuckles to himself. She always thought that “his” war was a rash act of stupidity. And because he can't really argue with her, he always acted as if she hadn't said a thing.) His family will have to act quickly, run things themselves, to avoid a lowblood radical or a Black Queen Loyalist usurping the power and the focus of the war.

 

Judging by Snowman's news, his family is alive, and though Meenah and the nobility supporting her – consisting mostly of highbloods, but there are a few carapaces and humans who she has allowed to retain their positions from Snowman's reign – still fight ruthlessly against the resistance – comprised of lowblood radicals, the Humanists, and the Loyalists – the war is not leaning particularly towards either side's victory. It is a stalemate, a mess of riots and street fights and random killings from all sides. In a way, it isn't a war at all, but a trend of terrorism so wide that the civilians felt it had to be named.

 

"You know, they cheer your name in the streets,” Snowman says to him, on one of his worse days. He is buried in the covers, almost inert, another piece of cloth, and still, she talks to him as though he is a living being. “They believe you dead, and yet they call for you so loudly it's as if they're trying to evoke you. They carry photographs of you. You are a martyr now, even against your family's insistence that you may still be alive.”

 

The words come after a long pause, muffled by pillows and quilts. “Where does everyone think I am?”

 

“In the castle prison,” Snowman says. “Chained, or in the ground. It hardly matters; it's an excuse for them to try to storm the castle.”

 

He peels his face away from his pillow, emerges from the covers. Looks at her as if he's only just now woken up. “Have they?”

 

“Not, yet,” she replies. “But soon. Very soon.”

 

He throws the covers off. “Where is Meenah?”

 

“Back there. Preparing.” She pauses, assessing his sudden alertness. “What do you plan to do?”

 

“Pace the mansion until I'm sick,” he replies. She calls after him, tells him not to drive himself crazy, and he yells back that it'd be impossible for him not to, that at least he's getting exercise.

 

Later that day, just before the resistance's army is nearly wiped out, three more mirrors are destroyed in the house. He throws the mirrors down on their backs, throws his weight down with each one so when they shatter, there are splinters coming up, cutting, and he is going to throw down a fourth when people finally arrive. Every fucking Felt member except for her.

 

Through blood he begs for Snowman, where is she, someone please tell him what is happening and if they have taken the castle. Where is Snowman, he has to talk to her right now, he wants to know what is happening, please, please, please –

 

Several of the Felt have to restrain him. For the rest of the night, they have to barricade the door since the lock on the outside has long been removed, and they are unsure what else to do with Snowman, who would normally be in charge, missing. Thankfully, she returns the next morning. After forcing them to remove the furniture they dragged up from the floor below, and scolding them for barricading the door in the first place, she takes her usual spot on Dirk's bed. Unlike usual, she digs beneath the covers and pulls him out, puts him into an aggressive headlock of a hug, and begins to tell him all that she saw.

 

She tells him, her tone grave, her words bereft of her usual insouciance, that the battle quickly went wrong. Though much of the resisting army managed to escape back into the inner city before the siege was entirely intercepted, many of them died. Many civilians also died. The streets ran red and brown and yellow and orange, staining the square in front of the castle like liquid fire. Several Humanists who were captured and likely held for questioning last night were executed that morning. Some lowbloods accused of being radicals were torn from their homes and killed in the streets, “as a precaution.” Snowman says lower class carapace homes have been raided, and anyone with her picture visible in their house who couldn't bribe the royal knights was arrested.

 

“I have to go back.” Dirk sounds like he's sobbing, but there's not a tear in sight. Just a stricken face, paling, peering at her like a cornered doe. Despite his words, he doesn't move, doesn't try to leave. He just clutches her.

 

She doesn't bother telling him he can't go back. She buries her face in his shoulder, tells him she's sorry she wasn't here with him. He murmurs into the hard warmth of her neck (carapace skin is so alien to him, yet bizarrely comforting) that he's glad to hear it from her directly, not the papers, not the Felt – they taunted him, told him that the resistance had all been captured and strung up, and even if that hadn't been a lie he didn't want to hear it from them.

 

No one comes to disturb them. It's for the best.

 

♣

 

Meenah comes back to visit – really, to hide from angry mobs – the next day. Snowman exchanges pleasantries with her, and acts as if nothing happened even when the other woman crudely brings the fate of the Loyalists up. Snowman brushes it aside, saying, “Oh, you know I don't involve myself in politics anymore, I'm legally dead,” and then changes the subject. Dirk feels betrayed by her friendly attitude, until he hears the two sets of footsteps leading away from his bedroom door. Snowman is acting as a distraction. Even though she has every reason to hate Meenah, she's keeping her away from Dirk, keeping her from taunting him. 

 

He thinks of the first wife, Damara, and of all the Loyalists who died. He suddenly feels very selfish. Not selfish enough to leave his bed and face Meenah. But selfish nonetheless.

 

♠

 

The demon doesn't ask if anything is wrong, of course. Dirk isn't sure if he even knows the battle happened, but if he does, he certainly doesn't care enough to mention it. The demon merely scowls in distaste at the unattractive bandages on Dirk's hands, tells him to stop breaking things.

 

“I don't see what the problem is. It's not as though I've injured any part of me you care for.”

 

“This hiatus will not last forever. Let your fucking hands heal. So we can get back to the story.”

 

“No need; I can tell you how it ends right now. Everyone dies. English wins. The end.”

 

He rolls over onto his side as if that will ward the demon off. English plays along. “Come on. Don't sulk.”

 

“I'll sulk as much as I want to; it's literally all I'm able to do in opposition of you anymore.”

 

“If you hold independence. So important. Then don't sell your soul. To a demon.”

 

The monster's breath is coming in heavier gasps. Dirk is treading the perilous line between teasing and provoking. Still, he keeps his back to the demon. His hand slips under his pillow.

 

“Convince me,” Dirk says, “that my life was worth giving up for you.”

 

The demon lets out a grumbling sigh. “You'd think that my mercy. That the life of your family. Was more than enough. You'd think.” A claw, tracing his thigh. “The way I _worship_ you. Would be enough to fulfill any. Sodomite's. Fantasy.”

 

Dirk's hand clenches around the object beneath his pillow almost unconsciously. “Don't flatter yourself.”

 

There are several seconds of pause, filled with the white noise of the monster's wretched breathing.

 

"I've known you had that dagger,” says the demon. “Since I got here."

 

There is an instant during which Dirk freezes. Only an instant, then he's got the dagger plummeting through the air at the demon's chest. But the instant of hesitation was enough – the demon has Dirk's wrist in his grip and is bending it, bending it, until the knife clatters out, and whimpers of pain issue from between the human's trembling, chattering teeth.

 

"YOU ARE THE MOST WANTED FUGITIVE IN THE COUNTRY,” the demon's voice booms, like a shotgun to his ear drums. “I COULD PROFIT FROM YOUR HEAD ON A PIKE. BUT I MERCIFULLY CHOSE TO SPARE YOU.”

 

He bends Dirk's hands back, eyes spinning maniacally. 

 

“HOW DARE YOU RAISE A HAND AGAINST ME. AFTER I BOTHERED TO TO SPARE YOUR PATHETIC LIFE. AFTER I PROTECTED YOUR FAMILY. DO I NOT PROTECT _YOU?_ DO I NOT PROVIDE YOU. WITH ALL YOU COULD ASK FOR? ARE YOU UNGRATEFUL FOR THIS LIFE. WHERE YOU DON'T HAVE TO LIFT A FINGER?" 

 

“I didn't ask for any of this,” Dirk chokes, thinking his voice will be lost in the cacophony, but the demon hears him. He presses the hand he already has in his grip down, using his other hand to pin Dirk's torso to the bed.

 

“You agreed to it,” English snarls. He lets go of Dirk's hand. Shows him one razor sharp, green claw. “I thought you knew your place. But apparently. You have to be reminded.”

 

“Don't,” Dirk begs.

 

A scream tears its way down the hall.

 

♣

 

The demon storms out of his room. Once the weight is released from his chest, Dirk's hands fly up to his throat. He gags, feeling the blood slick on his hands, the torn skin, fearful, _I am going to die._

 

But the cut is shallow like the last one. The monster, while ruthless, is precise; he aims to send a message, not to maim him. It is a stinging injury, not massively painful, but the horrible feeling of the blood and mutilation under his feelings, shock, has Dirk reeling. He staggers to his feet, hands still at his throat, heading for the bathroom downstairs without thinking, yanking his pants on as he does. He forgets the bandages and balms in the cabinet in his bedroom's adjoining bathroom.

 

Snowman appears at the doorway of the yellow bathroom as Dirk is rinsing his neck, cupping his hands in the sink and awkwardly tossing water on himself. She pushes her way inside and forces him to sit on the rim of the tub, even as he struggles against her.

 

There is the cool touch of a washcloth on his throat. He has the urge to swallow, but he knows it'll only hurt, given the wound. “It's going to be alright,” Snowman murmurs. “Just let me take care of this.”

 

There is a growl of frustration somewhere behind her. Dirk looks up instantly, anticipating danger-

 

"Listen up, asshole!" Suddenly Meenah is in the room, tearing Snowman's hands from Dirk's bleeding throat. "We all have our own problems! Don't expect any of us to mother you! Just because we got cunts doesn't mean we got to put up with your spoiled bullshit, little boy!"

 

Dirk stares at her in bewilderment. He's not sure how he missed the fact that she's been with Snowman this whole time. Judging by the look on her face, Snowman forgot all about her, too.

 

Snowman gasps at Meenah, feigning insult. “ _Mothering_ him? Excuse me, but do you mean to imply that I'm old enough to _be_ his mother?”

 

“Well you _are,_ but if that's all you got out of what I just fucking said-” Meenah stops herself, tyrian purple-smeared lips curling over sharp, white teeth. “You're fucking spoiling the kid! Let him clean his own damn wounds. Let him see what it's like when you got to fend for yourself!”

 

“Meenah, Dirk is just a much a victim as we-”

 

“He's a _man!_ We've had a lifetime of this bullshit, but it's brand new to him! He won't never understand this shit unless you take off the fucking training wheels and let him pick up the pieces his own damn self. Like we had to!”

 

“But why've I got to be _mothering?_ ” Snowman sniffs. “I'd hardly call myself nurturing. Why mothering? Why not _friendly?_ Or – a good hostess! I like helping people I like.” She nods, happy with this decision as she returns to dabbing at Dirk's neck. “Speaking of which, Meenah, I'd say I've been quite a good friend to you, even when you weren't to me! Given the number of times I tended to your wounds in the past, I wouldn't say any of us was ever truly alone.”

 

Dirk watches as the Alternian woman face turns an angry shade of fuchsia. “Yeah, but – that ain't the same!! I never asked you to help me, you're just such a fucking meddler that I _had_ to let you-”

 

“Oh, you _let_ me tend to you. Yes, I'm so sure Meenah.” Snowman chuckles.“If any of us had to take care of themselves, it was me _._ When I got here, no one had ever taught Damara how to disinfect a wound or wrap a proper bandage. All the responsibility fell on me. And you know what? I gladly took it. I _like_ looking after people, which is why Derse was far better off when I ruled than it will _ever_ be under you.” The syrupy, sweet tone with which Snowman says this is what really drives the point home. It says, _I may be kind to you, but it's not because I'm weaker than you. Cross me and I will tear you to shreds._

 

(Dirk thinks it's a wonder that Meenah is the ruler to have been nicknamed _Her Imperious Condescension._ It'd be obvious to anyone watching this conversation take place which woman has more control.)

 

“Not that you care,” Snowman scoffs. With that, she completely turns her back on the other woman, to face the rather frazzled Dirk.

 

“Bringing that up,” Meenah grumbles. Then, louder, “The fuck's Derse got to do with anything, anyway?!” Snowman continues to ignore her. With one last evil eye shot at Dirk, the troll woman turns and leaves. “I just didn't want it to be one-sided,” Meenah snaps without looking back.

 

“Maybe she's right,” Dirk mumbles irritably when she's gone. “I've tended wounds in battle, I shouldn't be so dependent on you. Maybe I should just take care of this my-”

 

“Having someone else tend to your wounds doesn't make you weak, it just means that you used all of your strength in battle and need a little help now that the adrenaline's gone.” Catching sight of Dirk's ashamed face, Snowman pauses in dabbing the blood on his neck. “...Be sure to return the favor to me later,” she amends.

 

He seems satisfied with this compromise, but he can't help arguing one last point. “I don't have a right to be tired. I barely fought back,” he grumbles, but Snowman hushes him, and they settle into silence as she works on him.

 

Meenah's been gone for about three minutes when Snowman starts to speak again. “I'm sorry she came in here and yelled at you like that. She was with me in the hallway when we heard him. I saw him storming away like that, utterly furious, and I knew instantly that you probably needed help. You're lucky he only scratched you. He could have your whole head off if he wanted.”

 

Her scolding him is vaguely irritating. He stares at the wall opposite. "What if it gets infected?"

 

She sighs. "It won't. I've treated it properly, so I'm absolutely sure it won't."

 

“He barely allows us any medical supplies to work with. Sooner or later, it's going to get infected, and gangrene is going to seep into my esophagus, and I will die... no, I can't die. I'll choke on it for all pf eternity.” And then, “Grene is going to ruin me. How fitting. I always hated the color.”

 

“Did you?” She asks. “Sometimes I believe I did, but then I remember that I never had a reason to until I came here.”

 

She gets up to grab a roll of bandages out of the cabinet over the sink. She reaches her hand into her pocket, rustling it around. Then it stops, suddenly.

 

“Dirk,” she says. “What did you do?”

 

Her stance is stiff. He's an idiot for thinking she wouldn't figure it out. He can't even bear to look at her right now. 

 

“Something really stupid,” he replies, quietly.

 

She sighs angrily. “Dammit. Now I need scissors.” She looks out the door, as if a pair or a Felt begging to fetch some for her will magically appear. “Dammit,” she says. “Dammit. Dammit, Dirk!”

 

She clenches the bandages in her hands. He swallows. “Maybe he won't recognize who it belongs to.”

 

“Of course he will!” she shouts. She won't look at him. She's just yelling at her reflection over the sink. “He's going to be _furious_ with me, dammit, Dirk...”

 

She finally looks at him. “How could you take my knife? No, no, don't answer that, because I already know why you did it – how could you try to kill him?! Did you honestly think it would work?! Did you even try to weigh the risks?!”

 

He slams his hands on the rim of the tub. “What risks?! Death?! Torture?! Life, trapped in this... fucking, hideous prison?! There was no risk!” Dirk yells. “I just had to try _something!_ I can't let myself rot here without having tried everything!”

 

“You-!” She cuts herself off before she says something she will regret. She raises her fist, then forces it down by her side. Control. She has to show control. “You do know that things would be easier if you just accepted you're never getting out of here, right?! Can't you pretend you're at least a little okay with your lot? Can't you just give yourself some semblance of peace, can't you... If you can't change anything, if there's no other future for you, can't you just pretend that you chose this? Can't you make this easy for yourself?!”

 

He can't tell if she's going to sob or not. She's furious, though. 

 

He doesn't want her to be. 

 

“But I _didn't_ choose this. You told me that he couldn't take my free will, and I was only acting on-!” He bites his tongue then, because the look she gives him is so stricken that he feels as though he has physically hit her. He resolves to let it go for now; even if these things are true, they won't help the situation at all.

 

“I'm sorry if you get in trouble because of me,” he whispers. “Just... tell him the truth. That I stole it and you didn't know.”

 

She stares at him, face haggard. “He'll blame me, you know, for not being careful.”

 

Dirk flinches. “He shouldn't.”

 

She laughs at him. “No. He shouldn't.”

 

♣

 

The demon screams at Snowman, but he doesn't hurt her, doesn't kill her.

 

“I told him you borrowed it to cut a loose thread, and I forgot to take it back.”

 

Dirk remembers embracing her in his bed, breathing in her scent because half his army was dead and she was the only living being he had left to hold onto who didn't want him dead as well.

 

“He screamed at me, of course, but he accepted that it was mostly your fault.”

 

He remembers slipping his hand into her pocket, mocking an embrace in need of comfort.

 

“He obviously likes you best.”

 

He just wanted her dagger.

 

“If you were anyone else, you'd be dead by now.”

 

He just wanted to kill that fucking son of a bitch.

 

“Well, that's you, I suppose. Quite the lucky one.”

 

He could've sworn he'd told her just days ago that he didn't believe in luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some foreshadowing in this chapter that won't be resolved until the sequel... :0


	8. Pathos Evokes Her Namesake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. :)

According to Snowman, when Meenah's supposedly abroad, having peace talks, gathering allies, she's really at the Felt Mansion, taking a vacation. Dirk isn't the least bit surprised; back when he was free, he and most others had noticed that her travels abroad always came right about the time she was most wanted dead by her subjects. (Well, she was always wanted dead, but sometimes she was wanted even more dead than others.)

 

Apparently, after the storming of the castle, she's wanted very dead. So, to Dirk's utmost pleasure, the murderer is hanging around, bugging the hell out of Snowman and him both. He tries to hide in Stitch's sewing room as often as possible, but at a certain point, Stitch admits that he himself does not care for Meenah (she's critical of his work and dresses just horribly) and starts locking the tailoring room's door. Dirk's only sanctuary would be his room, if it weren't for the fact that Meenah knows where that is.

 

The icing on top of the shitty cake is that Meenah isn't the only one home lately. Because Dirk and Snowman are still tip-toeing around each other since the incident with the dagger, Dirk's primary distraction from Meenah is Lord English. The demon claims to have nothing better to do than force Dirk to infantilize him with comics and hollow words of affection. With his hand mobile, Dirk has little excuse to refuse.

 

Out of pettiness, Dirk introduces a new character, an evil sea witch who terrorizes Blond Prince and Femme Fatale (the character Dirk based, at her request, on Snowman). After some spiteful narration and insulting, half-assed scribbles of the witch, English declares the storyline to be stupid and demands Jake conquer and force the witch to marry him so he can harness her power. “As a witch. Her power would naturally be found in her body. Correct?”

 

The demon salivates over the way Dirk draws her, beaten and bruised. Just like that, the tone of the storyline has changed markedly; it isn't funny anymore. After illustrating a makeshift wedding, where Jake has finally beaten the witch into submission and forced her hand, Dirk says quietly that his wrist has grown sore, that it's likely not fully recovered, and that he'd like to be excused for the night. After some grumbling and a rather tight claw on his upper arm, Dirk promises to resume tomorrow, and English relents.

 

♦

 

Dirk smashes a mirror that night. He didn't initially want to. It's just that the encounter with English – as with all encounters with English – twisted something inside of him. He was staring long and hard at his reflection when he became repulsed by his face. He stared at it, and it seemed to warp, the way our faces do when we stare at them too long. Except then Dirk's reflected lips were mouthing words, among them _hypocrite_ , and before he could stop himself, he was in a frenzy, smashing his hands into the mirror. The violets bloomed on his knuckles once again, the arrangement accented by bits of rose, and Snowman, because she cared about him, placed her feelings towards his betrayal aside so she could help him.

 

He's tending his own wounds when she enters the room, startling him. “Where'd you come from?”

 

“Itchy heard a mirror break and I figured I knew what had happened. I figure everyone knows what happened by now, as it seems you're on a mission to destroy every mirror in this house.” She shuts the door behind her. She has gauze and disinfectant in her hands.

 

“I'm fine,” Dirk insists. “I already have all that.”

 

But his right hand is awkward as it winds a bandage over his left. Both of his hands are a dark, painful looking purple.

 

"You can barely move them, they're hurting so badly," Snowman points out. She briskly walks over and sits down beside him on the bed. “Here. Let me see.”

 

“No!” He pulls his hands away, pouting almost childishly. “I can take care of it myself.”

 

“Dirk, there's no need to be so illogical. You can hardly manage to do this on your own, so just let me-”

 

"Don't-!" He shouts it louder than he means to. They look at each other, wide-eyed, and he swallows the volume of his voice. "...Don't mother me," he murmurs.

 

Snowman's brow arches, her white eyes looking skeptical despite their lack of pupils. "...Do you normally worry about gender roles when you're in pain this severe?"

 

Dirk fumbles with his reply. "I'm sorry. It's just, Meenah-"

 

"When Meenah came to the estate," Snowman interrupts, gently taking Dirk's hands in hers, "she murdered three of the Felt."

 

Dirk cannot find the words to reply to that. He merely looks at her, dumbfounded.

 

“And Damara – that's the other wife, remember? The one who died – she broke every clock in this building. So your breaking things, it's normal, here, or if not normal, a part of an enduring and predictable pattern. And do you know what else is?” She begins to untwist the badly applied bandage from Dirk's hand. “Us tending to each other. There's no one else here for us to turn to when we are in need. It's our duty, as fellow wom – _people_ in bonds, to help each other when no one else will.”

 

“Well. Now I know why there aren't any clocks in this house.” He feels weirdly better, with that mystery finally solved. And, despite the lack of this Damara's physical presence, less alone.

 

He thinks of the other, living wife. “Meenah seems to feel excluded from the sisterhood,” he comments.

 

Snowman shrugs. “Well. She _did_ kill Damara. And I'm rather fond of most of the Felt, the stupid dears, so I didn't much appreciate her picking any of them off, either.” She sighs heavily. “But I _do_ still reach out to her sometimes, if only because I know that, beneath her evil surface, there's a woman just as inconvenienced by this marriage as I am. And, believe it or not, she is sometimes a good conversational partner. When you catch her off guard. So I suppose there's that.”

 

As Dirk watches Snowman tend to his incredibly sore hands, he thinks about Meenah, and the Felt, and the clocks, and the mirrors. “What did _you_ break,” he asks, “when you first got here?”

 

Snowman continues to hold his now disinfected hands without looking at his face. "All ties with my old life."

 

Dirk snorts. “How poetic.”

 

She smiles wearily at him. “Not really.”

 

She excuses herself to get ice. He waits for her, thinking of little but the throbbing in his hands, the itchy tightness of a bandage. How familiar these feelings have become to him.

 

“I'm sorry for what happened the other day,” he says, as soon as she steps through the door. “I shouldn't have violated your trust like that.”

 

Her shoulders slump, the stiffness leaving her stance. It's like they're friends again. “Dirk.” She seems unable to decide what else to say, other than, “Thank you.”

 

They look at each other awkwardly, both made uncomfortable by such emotional vulnerability. Finally, she returns to his bed, giving him the ice so he can soothe his aching hands. He places the pack over his knuckles and sighs. “When they're less sore, we'll have to rewrap them.” He pauses. “I'm sorry for all this trouble.”

 

“I've told you it's no problem.”

 

“...Thank you. For helping me.”

 

“My pleasure.”

 

They sit together in silence for a while, feeling uncomfortable. Then, “Have you managed to get a new dagger yet?”

 

Snowman laughs as though the question is utterly idiotic. “Dirk. Of _course_ I have. I've told you countless times, I'm not just an arms dealer. I'm _the_ arms dealer.” She smirks. “Every weapon that supposedly isn't allowed in Derse goes through me first.”

 

“And that job was given to you by the demon,” Dirk says.

 

“Yes.”

 

“So the demon's whim has been allowing us revolutionaries to get our hands on the few guns that manage to get over the Prospitian border. You're the middle man – sorry, woman. You and the Felt sneak the weapons into Derse and sell them off to dealers, where we purchase them.”

 

“Revolutionaries aren't the only ones who profit from my business,” Snowman reminds him, smirking. She points to herself. “ _The_ arms dealer. Every lowblood radical acting on their own, every paranoid highblood looking to protect themselves against revolutionaries, every carapace pawn and bourgeois human looking for home security or a means of resistance gets what they need because of me. I am the reason terrorists and terrified civilians alike can buy swords and guns in back alleys from their friendly neighborhood arms dealers. Without me, there wouldn't be a single gun in Derse; you know how hard they are to produce. We can't make them here, not with our resources, not the way we can forge knives and swords.”

 

The demon's supposed involvement in Derse piques Dirk's interest. From what he's claimed, the demon is the central gear around which all the other cogs spin, but how? It couldn't hurt to grill Snowman a little... “The demon has Meenah under his control; he could easily have made these weapons legal for civilians. Why does he have you running this operation?”

 

“To keep Derse in chaos, of course.”

 

“What is the purpose of such chaos?”

 

Snowman shrugs. “I follow orders. I don't issue them. Well. I do, but there's a chain of command.”

 

Dirk laughs to lighten the mood. “I suppose you wouldn't be able to help me out, get me anything?”

 

Snowman scowls at him. “After you tried to stab English? I'm lucky _I'm_ still allowed to have a dagger.” She sighs, loudly. “You're still not allowed to have anything more than a needle or a steak knife. And don't even _think_ about it, you know our husband is far too powerful and just... _big_ to be killed by such useless, domestic objects.”

 

Dirk pulls a face. “I'd never entertain such idiocy. Who do you take me for?”

 

“Someone who's stupid enough to try and kill the very same demon with a flimsy dagger.”

 

“...I wasn't really myself,” Dirk says, voice soft. He'd thought they were done talking about this. Apparently not. “I haven't been myself, not since I got here. I keep making stupid mistakes-”

 

“Really? Premeditated theft, taking advantage of me when I was comforting _you_ , that's all a mistake now, is it?” With an angry sigh, Snowman gets off his bed. “Honestly, would it kill you to take some responsibility for how you behave?”

 

“Fine, I will!” Dirk hops off his bed to stand beside her. “I stole your dagger. I apologized. It was stupid of me to disregard you and try to kill English anyway.” His tone grows ever more frustrated. “But I'm not going to pretend that this place hasn't broken something in me. I used to pride myself on my rationality, but now I feel like I'm going steadily insane. I'm not sure I can trust my own decisions anymore, I mean, I'm not all _there_ mentally. You've seen the destruction I've caused since getting trapped here.”

 

She laughs. “No offense, Dirk, but if you're using a few broken mirrors to prove you've changed, it's not the best example. Your war has destroyed the whole of Derse.”

 

“No, Snow, listen.” She seems to want to soften at the nickname, but she crosses her arms and stares at him steadily as he pleads with her. “Snow, I am... I _was_ the leader of a highly organized army.”

 

“Of terrorists.”

 

“Yeah! Fine! But we were organized in our terror. These mirrors, it's not organized, I just. Sometimes.” Dirk stutters into silence. He should tell her about the hallucinations he's been having. It'd explain a lot about his behavior if he'd just be honest with her. It'd be the perfect support for his argument, it'd prove that the mansion is driving him insane, and yet he hesitates. To tell her about the hallucinations, about seeing himself, would only alarm her unnecessarily. He doesn't want to steal the argument through sympathy. (And besides that, he thinks, the hallucinations aren't even the whole story. Dirk has a history of mental... slip-ups, starting with his childhood. Perhaps he can't really blame captivity for all that he has seen.)

 

Dirk swallows. “...I just don't feel right. Look, that's not the point here. My revolution is crashing down all around me, and I can't do anything about it. Of course I'm going to act out. Of course I'm going to – of course I _tried_ to kill the guy who took it all away from me. It's only logical.”

 

She puts her hands on her hips. “Forgetting it would be far more logical. Forgetting everything would be far more conducive to your survival. Once you let everything go, once you accept your place here, it'll all be easier. You won't act out anymore. You won't _endanger_ yourself anymore.”

 

“I can't – it's not that easy! I – I started a _war!_ Why would I start a war if it wasn't about something important to me? If it's so easy to let go of, why'd I start a war in its name?”

 

They're fighting again. He's not entirely sure why, but it doesn't feel like she's truly forgiven him for trying to kill English with her dagger. It only makes him angry at her. How can she expect him to abandon his old life, to throw away such a huge part of his identity? He hadn't wanted to try to kill English again, but now, he wanted desperately to prove to Snowman that he had a right to do what he did a day ago, that his attempted murder _made sense._ It only makes her angrier with him.

 

She leaves insisting she isn't, though. She says she'd just like some space. Dirk watches her go without protest. Maybe space would be a good idea for him, too. Sometimes she's impossible to understand.

 

♠

 

There's a member of the Felt ringing a garishly colored hat in his hands, his suit ruffled as though he's only just returned from a job. What has him trembling, however, has little to due with rival arms-dealing gangs, switchblades come slinging out of pockets, or bullets barely missing vital organs. “Don't go in the kitchen,” he warns Dirk, swallowing. “She's not in a very good mood.”

 

For some reason, the prospect of her trying to keep everyone else out is what motivates Dirk to insist he must go in. “I'm hungry,” he says.

 

The Felt's eyes bulge. “Can't that _wait?_ ” he asks, stricken.

 

“No,” Dirk decides, striding towards the kitchen door. “She's not the only one who lives here. She has to learn to share.” The last thing he catches sight of before leaving the little green man behind is a look of incredulity. He'd shrug it off, figure his status under the demon's protection put him in a special position, if not for the knife that is thrown at his head in the instant he enters the room.

 

The blade misses his ear by millimeters.

 

Meenah leans on a counter opposite him. She's haphazardly thrown on a red apron, which looks comically out-of-place over her usual choice of skin tight clothing. Her many bangles and rings have been placed aside, out of the warzone littered with egg gore, flour, and various other ingredients. She is tainted by the battlefield, white patches in her gigantic mass of black hair from where she reached up to adjust or scratch with flour on her hands. She's holding a bowl filled with a thin, brown batter. She brandishes a wooden spoon where, normally, there'd be a scepter, or a triton.

 

It's absurd, to see a woman of royalty in a such a state of domesticity. Dirk would laugh at her if not for his encounter with English flashing in his mind, stilling his tongue.

 

She bares her teeth at the sight of him. “You!”

 

“Me,” he replies. He glances over to see that the knife she threw at him is stuck in the wall. He whistles. “That takes some skill.”

 

“Get out!”

 

“Did you learn to do that throwing your triton around?” He's impressed. It takes a hell of a lot of precision to throw knives like that.

 

The troll woman stirs the bowl in her arms with an aggression that's nearly comical. “If I'd known it'd be you, I wouldn't have thrown to miss!”

 

“So you wouldn't kill any of the Felt?” He doesn't bring up the fact he knows she already has. “Do you have any reason not to?”

 

“That bitch gets mad when I do,” she huffs, scowling. “But no matter how fond she is of you, I won't hesitate to run you through if you don't get out _now_!”

 

Despite the hostility radiating from her features, Dirk heads for the shelves. “So you're afraid of Snowman's wrath when you kill a disposable henchman, but not of English's should you harm his charge? How illogical.” He pauses, both for effect and to root through the shelves for something to eat. “...Although, judging by how there's still no knife in my back, I'd guess that you're more afraid of him than you're willing to admit.”

 

She can't believably deny her fear of him without acting on her empty threats to harm Dirk, so she resorts to condescension instead. “No shit, I'm afraid of him,” Meenah scoffs, as though it was idiotic of Dirk to ever consider otherwise. “He's probably the only guy on the whole planet who can kill me.”

 

“ _Especially_ now that I'm out of the picture,” Dirk comments, pulling a few items from the vegetable drawer in the icebox.

 

“You fucking wish,” she snorts. “Now would you kindly fuck off? I'm trying to bake here. I can't deal with people crowding me when I'm baking.”

 

Normally Dirk would try to grab whatever food was portable, but he's feeling antagonistic today. “Nope,” he says, laying ingredients on the counter. “I have just as much as right to use this kitchen as you.”

 

Meenah glares at him. “I could just fucking stab you.”

 

“Go ahead and try,” he replies. He pulls a knife from the rack.

 

They glare at each other for a few seconds. Meenah backs down first.

 

“Whatever,” she mutters. “Just don't make a point to piss me off.”

 

After some debate, he resolves to do as she says. For now, at least. For a time, they work quietly side-by-side, each preparing their own food. Dirk notes that it's been a while since he's had a real meal; he usually grabs whatever's portable – a piece of fruit, a loaf of bread, a nearly depleted hunk of cheese – and spirits it back to his room to eat in isolation. The Felt often dine together and Snowman sometimes joins them, but Dirk doesn't like being away from his room longer than necessary. He finds even the possibility of interaction with anyone but Snowman to be highly tedious.

 

Today, though, his desire to antagonize Meenah has him in the kitchen, so he might as well prepare himself a meal of substance. He decides he'll make a pot of soup from scratch. That way he can linger longer.

 

A sweet smell wafts past his face. It's a homey and tender smell, totally incongruent with what's happening in the kitchen right now. “What are you baking?” he asks her.

 

“All kinds of crap,” Meenah grumbles.

 

“You don't sound very happy about it. Why bake at all if you're not excited about it?”

 

“You must've been raised by some kind of housewife,” Meenah scoffs. “Excited about being in a hot kitchen, getting all covered in raw eggs and shit. Are you fucking kidding?”

 

Dirk shrugs. “My mother never cooked much for us, but I had a friend who loved to bake. She said it was more fun than just cooking.” He can hear Jane's happy chirrup. _Sometimes people forget to thank you when you make dinner – it's a thing you're just_ expected _to do_. _But everybody's always grateful when you make cookies!_ She'd had the funniest laugh. She'd snort, if you got her wound up enough. _Plus what you get when you bake's just more fun to eat, too!_

 

“Yeah, well, I hate both,” Meenah snaps. “I don't like sweet food. It makes me damn sick just to smell it, but lo and behold, it's all that fucker eats other than red meat. Ugh!” She shudders. “I can't stand the smell of steak.”

 

Dirk raises his eyebrows. “You've had a meal with him? He goes to the castle?”

 

Meenah scowls. “No, stupid, a demon can't just barge through the most populated fucking city in the country and remain a fucking secret. He eats here literally every time he's here. You just don't have to eat with him because you get your fucking way with _everything._ ”

 

At that, Dirk shuts his mouth, dumfounded. He'd had no idea. Honestly, he hadn't. He watches her shoulders, stiff with everlasting anger as she shoves a pan into the oven.

 

“At least you get to keep your weapons,” he sulks, thinking of Snowman as well. “I've been totally castrated.”

 

She rolls her eyes at him, but doesn't deign to reply. Bereft of the antagonism he desires, Dirk returns to cooking. Almost without thinking, he tugs on his ring, as if to remove it and keep it away from the mess of the food, but it doesn't budge. It may as well be a part of him now, he sourly notes, a visible circlet of white bone pushing out of his flesh rather than into it.

 

He throws together a scrappy, leftover-based soup. It was the sort Dave used to make when he and Roxy were sick. That is, until the Black Queen fell to the Alternian Empire's invasion, and Dirk and his family were kicked out of their home in the palace. Then they ate soup every day they were able to eat.

 

Dave had only known how to make the sorts of meals suited for living on a battlefield for long periods of time. In fact, the only reason Dave knew how to cook was because he'd learned while serving in the Dersite army, before he rose to the highest ranks of knighthood and someone was hired to prepare meals for him.

 

It's not lost on Dirk that the food he's preparing now was the only thing he was able to eat when the woman at his side rose to power and upended his life. He wonders how things would have gone differently if Meenah had just died with the Alternian Empire. If he would have ever killed anyone, or started a war.

 

A garishly fingernailed hand reaches out to upend the boiling pot of water off the burner and onto Dirk's front, but he grabs Meenah by the wrist before she can. To his shock, she pulls out of his grip easily, laughing. “Pay attention,” she says.

 

“You're a psycho!”

 

“We're not friends just because we're sharing a kitchen. I still hate you!”

 

“Fuck you!” he spits. “You're such a fucking tyrant. I hope somebody kills you and takes the throne soon!”

 

She throws back her head, cackling. “You forget already?” She asks, flashing her hand at him. “You and me got the same bling keeping us from kicking it. I'm going to live forever!”

 

He desperately wants to toss the boiling pot of water at her, but he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him lose his cool. She'll probably move out of the way in time, anyway. And then he'll have to start his soup all over again.

 

He begins to stir, his other hand on guard to ward her off. “I'll tell you something. I can see why your people keep fucking dying. You're so violent.”

 

“What?” she squawks. “What the hell is 'your people' supposed to mean? Trolls? You do realize you've gone on a murder spree yourself?”

 

He shrugs. “Humans are violent, sure. But it's an anomaly, against social code, when they are. Trolls are violent by default. You glorify it. Stuck up highbloods profit from a system that murders the lowbloods, then they get all offended when the lowbloods fight back. The lowbloods behead highblood nobles in the street, then get furious when they're arrested for murder. And those are the Dersites; I can't imagine what a native Alternian is like.” He rolls his eyes. The irises are orange, a color ironically far more plausible for a troll boy than a human one. “No wonder the Alternian Empire collapsed. You people probably murdered each other until there weren't any citizens left to rule. Everyone sensible fled to Derse or Prospit for survival.”

 

“Alternia fell because the lusii died, and you know it!” Meenah snarls in reply. “Our population got fucked up because a disease killed all of them, and no mother grubs means no trolls! There's only two left in the whole fucking world, two!! And one's dying fast! _That's_ what destroyed the population, you fucking know-it-all.”

 

Of course, Derse had the dying mother grub. The keepers of the healthy mother grub had been given honorary Prospitian citizenship and been encouraged to flee the moment lusii began to drop dead. Derse still held a grudge about that particular stroke of Prospitian “luck.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Dirk sighed, “and systematic genocide didn't speed up that process. Whatever you want to tell yourself. Honestly, if you'd taken better care of your first empire, you wouldn't have had to start over. Derse could be left well enough alone. Dammit!” His hand flies to his mouth, singed painfully by a splash of boiling water. He'd been stirring too forcefully. Face twisted with frustration, he snaps, in between mouthing his burn, “Even if I never get out of here, you're finished. Somebody's going to put you in your place. They have to!” His other hand is trembling from the force of the anger reverberating throughout his body. It's a wonder he doesn't bite his finger off. “You're not even _from_ here!!”

 

Meenah scowls at him as he nurses his finger. “Neither are you.”

 

He starts, looking at her with wide eyes. “What-? You're joking, right? I was raised in Derse for most of my life! You're just-”

 

“You talk a big game,” Meenah cuts in. “But you're not from here, neither. Not really. You been raised in fucking castles your whole life. You're _nobility._ Yeah, I know your backstory. You act like you're a leader of the lower classes, but what do you know of the shit they go through? At least I'm willing to admit I don't give a fuck. You act like you're all out to save the world, but really, you're probably just as hungry for power as me!”

 

“I wouldn't _kill_ like you kill!”

 

“Yeah? Yeah, you'd stop the genocide? Just like that? You'd shut down every high blood acting on their own? You'd stop it all?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“And what else?”

 

“I'd – what?”

 

“And what else would you do, if you had the throne?” Her face is alight with a ferocity that makes him want to take her seriously. Because she isn't too angry, for once – she's reached a level of calm, of seriousness. She speaks without condescension. “When you overthrew me, what were you gonna do? Wave a flag around? Declare Derse free? How were you gonna _rule?_ How were you gonna lead the people, fix the system? Huh?”

 

“I-”

 

“I'm _waiting._ ”

 

He must've had plans. Why can't he think of anything? “I'd reform the government, of course. We'd have a council, a parliament-”

 

“Who'd be on it?”

 

“My top followers, of cour-”

 

“And if they turned out to be corrupt?” she cut in. “How would you get rid of them? A vote? What if they ganged up on you? What if your henchmen proved just as bad at handling Derse as me?”

 

“It'd be a democracy, I'd take them down, for the good of-”

 

“You'd just take them down? You'd kill them? Imprison them?” She doesn't smile. “Sounds like something I would do.”

 

“You're twisting this,” Dirk snaps. “You're twisting this, no matter what I say will seem wrong.”

 

“I'm not twisting anything. I'm being straight with you. My questions aren't hard. You're the one getting riled up.” Her arm, bare of adornments, sweeps in a grand gesture to the whole kitchen, as if it were Derse. “What would you do with it? What the fuck are your goals other than getting me out of power, huh?!”

 

He could tell her what he proclaimed in his speeches. He could say that lowbloods have suffered for too long. He could say the carapaces have suffered for too long. He could say humans have suffered for too long. He could say, when I kill you, no more lowbloods will die, except that once she's out of the way, the lowbloods will go straight for her highblood supporters. He could say, when I kill you, carapaces won't be oppressed, except that he won't give them their government back, not wholly, not without troll and human interference. Equal representation, except with the natives, the majority, shoved into the smallest, least significant positions. He could say, when I kill you, the humans will return to their places of nobility and middle class stability... and, with the threat of the Alternian highbloods eradicated, they will do precisely that.

 

He realizes, that for all of his speeches, for all of his elaborate acts of terrorism meant to weaken Meenah's power, for all of his planning to seize the throne, he doesn't actually know how to save Derse. He only knows how to do what every ruler before him has done: change the direction of violence, thus preserving the system of violence itself.

 

He stares at her. Then, almost mechanically, he turns back to his food. She says something to him, but he can't hear it. Even after the roar of flame has been quieted, he can't hear her. His blood is rushing through his, head, screaming, red.

 

“I've killed a lot of people,” he says, as if he only just realized.

 

“Join the club,” Meenah snorts.

 

He looks at the pot of soup listlessly. It won't matter if it's the best meal he's ever eaten. It doesn't feel worth it anymore. “At what point did it get easy for you? Killing people? Because I think I shut myself off from the very beginning. I don't think I even gave myself a chance to care.”

 

When he finally lifts his face to hers, he is surprised to see her seriously mulling it over.

 

“Yeah,” she says. “That sounds about right.”

 

He looks back down. He wonders where the spoons are. “You're still a terrible person. You kill for all the wrong reasons.”

 

“I've got news for you, kid. There's no really, moral kind of right reason to kill people. There's just reasons. And I have reasons. Plenty of reasons.”

 

He shakes his head at her. “I'm not going to let you tell me what you're doing is okay just because I kill, too.” Killed, technically. But he's only stopped because he physically _can't_ anymore, not locked up, so far from the war. Wherever this fucking mansion is relative to the capital.

 

She snarls at him. “It ever occur to you I made this deal for a reason?” She watches as he begins the search for utensils, a bowl, never once glancing in her direction. She slams her hand on the counter just to see if he'll flinch, and he doesn't. “People are always looking down on those who bargain with the devil. Nobody asks why they made the fucking bargain, though!”

 

A second shot. She tells Dirk's back that she had wanted a second shot at an empire. She had wanted a second shot not just because she liked ruling, terrorizing – because yeah, she _loved_ power – but because she wanted to fix the troll population. She wanted to rebuild not just her power, but _Alternia_ , Derse and its non-troll inhabitants be damned.

 

Dirk spares her a glance before spooning soup into a bowl. He asks, if she's so keen on saving her people, why does she keep on purging the population?

 

He can see, as she grins, the black of her lips where she licked her blood-colored lipstick off. “I wanted a cleaner gene pool, this time around.”

 

The bowl misses her head. She lunges at him, and within minutes, they're grappling on the floor of the kitchen.

 

“You fucking racist, murderous _bitch!”_

 

“Don't judge me!! Don't judge me, you killer!! You kill highbloods, you reverse-racist-”

 

“ _Reverse racist?!_ Are you seriously implying hating highbloods has even _half_ the repercussions-”

 

“People are fucking dying either way, aren't they?!”

 

They scream at each other as they tear and pinch and punch and scratch. Systematic oppression! Blood in the streets! The good of her people! The good of Derse! The demon's fault! Their own! The kitchen is a mess of spilled food, rhetoric, and foul curses. Each is responsible for a trail of mass destruction.

 

A throat being cleared tears their attention away from each other. They are on the floor. Meenah's hands are on Dirk's throat, nails scraping his skin. He has a hand fisted, ready to land directly in the center of her gut. They are both covered in food, each has a scratch or two, and each has the makings of a rather impressive black eye starting to form.

 

A member of the Felt, a tall, square-jawed fellow with sharp teeth and slanted eyes, looks at them with a degree of disdain. “If the two of you are quite finished with your cat fight, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop destroying the kitchen.” He looks down on Meenah with distaste, as if she is not the most powerful woman in the country. “Our lord is expecting his dinner soon. It'd be nice if you wouldn't burn it this time.” His shriveling gaze passes coldly over Dirk. “And I'm sure he'll be expecting your company, afterwards. So the two of you may as well make like adults and compose yourselves in a way that's worthy of his presence.”

 

Their argument reduced to a mere children's squabble, the two untangle themselves from each other and slink away, metaphorical tails between legs, heads down, refusing to meet the eye of the imposing figure in the doorway.

 

“That's better. I suppose.” The man sighs. “I'll send someone in to clean your mess up. Meenah, I really do hope you've got some meat cooking, because he's already here.”

 

“But dinner isn't normally until-”

 

“Just get it down.” He crooks a finger in Dirk's direction, as if summoning a particularly deaf servant. “You. Come.”

 

Dirk doesn't even bother to grab some soup. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Meenah pick up a spoon, and just. Stare at it. Her shoulders are as high as her jaw, rigid, when the Felt member slams the door shut so Dirk can no longer see.

 

♠

 

"Tell me again. About the buildings you burned."

 

Hesitation. "Which one?"

 

"The high blood council building. Tell me about that one."

 

Dirk took a moment, perhaps to imagine it. "We barricaded the doors. Then we lit it on fire."

 

The demon clicked his tongue in disapproval, but didn't comment on Dirk's poor storytelling. He'd heard this one enough times before.

 

"Why did you burn it down?"

 

"We burned it because some of her highness's most trusted men and women were inside, obviously. We had to get rid of them. It was no use keeping them hostage. Their power supply simply had to be cut off."

 

"How many died?"

 

"I'm not sure."

 

The demon hummed.

 

"What of the children?"

 

"What about them?"

 

"What did they sound like. As they died?"

 

"Imagine for yourself."

 

"Could you count the screams?"

 

Dirk was quiet. The demon went on.

 

"Could you tell how many. From the screams?"

 

"I couldn't count them if I tried."

 

"Because there were so many."

 

"It was too awful to count." Dirk paused. "If I didn't block them out, I wouldn't be able to go through with it. I was doing what was necessary."

 

The demon laughed at the word. “You and me both.”

 

♦

 

Before Dirk can take even two steps towards his room, noise bursts from the direction of the main hall. The Felt guy, distracted, heads straight for the noise. Dirk is pondering whether he should just go back to his room as he was ordered when the sound of a woman's voice immediately changes his mind.

 

The gargantuan double doors have been flung open, and numerous members of the Felt are rushing around the room. Two men are attempting to support Snowman, but she is snapping at them, telling them to get away from her. Dirk is about to step forward when the Felt guy with the square jaw, the one who just now made Dirk and Meenah feel like stupid children, looks on the scene with the same level of exasperation he spared them. “Have you all not treated her wounds yet?”

 

“She won't let us, Crowbar!” Squawks a member Dirk recognizes as Doze. “She keeps telling us to-”

 

Snowman smashes him in the chest with her elbow, effectively loosening his grip. “English said to report to him _immediately_ after we were finished!” She snaps.

 

The other member attempting to steady her looks anxious. “But your wound-”

 

“I don't need your help!”

 

“But-”

 

“ _Go!_ ”

 

They look one another nervously, then at Crowbar. After a moment of contemplation, he nods, and they let her go. She sinks almost instantly to her knees, a hand clutching beneath her breast. Even from the doorway, one can plainly see the black fabric of her blazer so thoroughly soaked through with blood. Dirk rushes to her side.

 

“It's all right,” he tells the pair, who, despite having let go, are still hovering. “I've got this.”

 

Snowman laughs, although whether at him or at them is uncertain. “Go, you idiots, get cleaned up. I'll simply die here on the floor.”

 

“No, you won't. Somebody – you, there, the one running all over. What's your name? Clover? Go get me some gauze, some disinfectant and – oh.” Dirk has pried her hands away from her breast, only to see the full extent of the injury. The gash looks obscenely large. “Oh, that's a big wound. Do you have first aid supplies? As a mob you must.”

 

The little guy hesitates. “When we get injured, usually Stitch just sews us back up.”

 

Dirk's eyebrows shoot up. “ _Really?_ No wonder he has such a nasty scar on his face, he probably did that himself. Alright! In that case, run to Stitch's room, get me some thread. Nothing wool or cotton-based, I need something synthetic. And, uh. I suppose one of his thicker needles, the sort that works on leather. Don't worry, he'll know what you mean.”

 

The little bowler-hatted fellow scurries off. Dirk touches her forehead. “How long have you been bleeding?”

 

She smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with fatigue. “Since I was stabbed, I imagine.”

 

“Do you think we can move you? We need to clean the wound, but I'll have them bring the water if you're too sore.”

 

She squeezes her eyes shut. “I don't think I'm going anywhere right now.”

 

Dirk feels someone gaze over his shoulder and waves at him without looking up to see who it is. “Help me. Lift her legs. We need to get her someplace comfortable.”

 

“No. I'm fine right here,” she grunts, the thought of moving obviously painful. “I like this floor very fine, thank you.”

 

Still, she doesn't struggle when Dirk and the man lift her, Dirk at her torso, Crowbar at her legs. There was a time when Dirk would have been able to carry her on his own, but he knows for a fact that his pathetically small diet and days spent lying in bed haven't exactly sustained his muscle mass. Crowbar doesn't make a single comment, merely following Dirk's directions as they transport the woman to lay on a comfortable-looking chaise lounge in the nearest parlor. Once she is settled, Dirk asks that he get water and a sponge. “I hope you won't mind the lounge getting wet, but the best way to clean the wound is to pour water over it.”

 

Crowbar retrieves the water without comment. “Thank you.” Dirk nods at the doorway. “Please don't let anyone in except those who have supplies, and don't let them linger.”

 

“It's nobody's business but this kid's what my bloody tit looks like,” Snowman cackles.

 

Crowbar looks at him stonily for a second. Just minutes ago, he had power over this kid. Now... “...Yes, sir.”

 

Dirk turns back to begin cleaning Snowman's wound. He peels away her top, not allowing himself to flinch when the wound comes into full view. It doesn't look quite so deep, with the mess it's made on her shirt cleared away. 

 

She smiles at him through her teeth as he wrings the sponge out, a gentle column of water soaking her wound. She winces at the sensation, but keeps her amused expression nonetheless. “You're smiling.”

 

“Hm?” He hadn't noticed.

 

She laughs. “You are! You're smiling! What ever for?”

 

He cleans as he talks. “...I just. It's been a while since anyone's called me sir.”

 

She laughs at him, and though it's affectionate rather than mean, he still feels his face heat up with embarrassment at his sentimentality. The moment is broken by a hand prodding at Dirk's shoulder. “Uh... here.”

 

When Dirk turns, Clover is holding out the things Dirk asked for in one hand, and covering his eyes with the other. It's strange – perhaps his relationship with Snow is so symbiotic that her loss of blood is making him giddy, too. But he chuckles at the sight, and thanks Clover for the help.

 

When he's left, Dirk sets to work disinfecting and sewing up the wound. Snowman hisses through her teeth every time he breaks her skin with the needle. Carapace skin is, actually, a lot like the times he's mended leather, in terms of thickness. It's smoother, though. And, distressingly, less flexible.

 

He stabs his finger deep. It's what he gets, trying to sew without a thimble. His finger flies to his mouth, the taste of his blood and hers mingling on his tongue. They taste one in the same.

 

Snowman talks through grit teeth. “I'm surprised you even know how to treat a wound this large.”

 

He's a veteran. Of course he knows how to sew a wound shut.

 

They talk to take her mind off the pain. He tells her about seeing Meenah in the kitchen, about stubbornly refusing to leave, about their fight.

 

She snorts. “You pretend to be so... logical, so composed. But you're nearly as petty and hot-headed as she is.”

 

“It takes a degree of violence to lead violent men.” He watches his hands closely, moves carefully so as not to make any mistakes. “I feel sorry for her, in a way. She's locked up, too.”

 

“Not like you are.”

 

She's probably cooking, even now. “...Still.”

 

The hand she has braced on the lounge’s soft cushion tightens like she wants to tear a hole in the thing. She hisses in pain. “She's – argh – she is still a murderer, Dirk. You needn't pity her. It's condescending.”

 

They snicker together at the word. “That's her job,” Dirk adds. “Wait, think of something sad. You need to stop trembling. I can't do this when you're not still.”

 

“Something sad? _My life._ ” She brings her hand to her forehead in a dramatic, swooning gesture. Then, “No, wait. That sounds like something you'd say. I'll think of your life.”

 

Within minutes, he's finished closing her up. He begins to apply a bandage over top. “We'll need to change this every now and again. You'll be wearing it for about a week – actually, do me a favor and don't go out on any... day jobs for a while.”

 

“Help me sit up,” Snowman replies. Dirk helps her so that she's leaning on the back of the lounge. She lets out a long breath, as if it took a mighty effort simply to erect herself. “I'll be alright,” she says, as if to counter it. Absently, she runs her fingers over the bandage. “None of my bras will fit properly for a while,” she sighs.

 

“Wear something loose-fitting, so you won't need it.”

 

She looks at him where he's kneeling on the floor. She's elevated enough by the furniture that her naked breasts are eye-level with him. “...You know, this entire time I haven't even thought about the fact that you're a man. I've just known that I was safe in your hands.”

 

He's rubbing his fingers on the sponge, trying to get the little chips of dried blood off. He can see all the spots he'd missed and it's bothering him. His movements strike them both as fidgety. “It hardly matters that I'm a man. I'd never really... You know. To you.”

 

Whether it's an admission of his lack of sexual attraction or of a missing mechanism of violence, neither of them are sure. Maybe it's both.

 

“I nearly expected you to bleed blue,” Dirk says, smirking. “Being royalty and all.”

 

She squints at him. “If you're talking of trolls and their stupid caste system, my blood would the same as Meenah's. Brighter, maybe. More brilliant.”

 

“Alternians think saturation is a sign of mutation.”

 

“Of course they do. It upsets all of their preconceived notions of racial superiority, to have wild cards entering their hierarchy.”

 

They fall silent. “Tell Crowbar to get me a clean shirt.”

 

“I could run and get it for you.”

 

“No. I like your company. I rather you stay here.”

 

He passes the message on to the man leaning, bored, at the doorway. When he's left, Dirk returns to Snowman's side.

 

“What did you want to talk about?”

 

She shrugs. “Anything. Anything you'd like.”

 

He thinks about it as he sits at her feet, at the end of the lounge. “Hmm. If you're willing, tell me about today's raid. Who won?”

 

“We did,” she says, a toothy grin lighting her features. “Of course we did.”

 

And they've made up. All it took was a gigantic wound and time spent in the company of meaner individuals to make them realize how very much they liked each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter. It's a good balance of plot and deeper meaning. This might be my favorite chapter, especially starting with the scene between Dirk and Meenah onward.
> 
> I imagine Dirk learned how to sew wounds shut during some semi-traumatic moment in his childhood. Maybe Dave was injured falling from a horse or tripping over a sword and Rose made Dirk watch while she sewed up the gash and maybe even made him do part of it because she knew he'd need the knowledge some day. (Because they're Dersites – it's impossible for a child to grow up in Derse without knowing bloodshed and war.) And Dirk was queasy and weepy the whole time, even though Dave kept laughing and telling him he was okay, it was just a little gash, he'd had worse. And Roxy, little as she was, was entirely unbothered by such a flesh wound because the adults were laughing, so what reason was there to panic?
> 
> Oh, and in relation to Meenah's fight with Dirk, [ this quote](http://pof-series.tumblr.com/post/80842573417/the-classic-trap-for-any-revolutionary-is-always) is quite relevant to keep in mind.


	9. Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the alternate title of this chapter is “microaggressions: i'll stop bitching about spilt milk if you stop spilling the fucking milk on me”  
> or, if we're going for a metaphor more relevant to the events in this chapter, “I'll stop bitching over open doors if you stop leaving them open all the time and expecting me to close them and kill all the bugs and wild animals that sneak in”

The Felt mansion has given Dirk many opportunities to question his beliefs. Philosophical arguments aside, Lord English's very existence is an anomaly, whether one assumes he is a demon lacking in the tentacles that most horrorterror abominations sport, or ponders that he may be some other creature altogether. The Felt, too, have caused Dirk to question whether carapaces, trolls, and humans truly are the only beings of higher intelligence in existence.

 

And now, there is Scratch.

 

He stands as tall as Dirk's ribcage in a refreshingly white suit (although he has chosen to accent this ensemble, quite predictably, in lime greens). He is a man with an air of sophistication and mystery about him, magnificent posture, and, oh, yes, a cue ball for a head. He has no hair, no eyes, no mouth, no pores... nothing. His head is just a white, featureless ball without a face. And Dirk thought he'd seen it all. He entertains the idea that this strange man may be wearing a mask, until the man starts to speak.

 

“I'm terribly sorry to shock you, Mister Strider, I forgot how alarming my appearance can be the first time one takes it in.” There is a lilt of apology in his voice, which resonates bizarrely from his face like sound from a percussion instrument. “Of course,” he adds, “if anyone had bothered to tell you of my existence in the first place, perhaps alarm could have been avoided.”

 

Despite his lack of facial features, Dirk senses that the little man, who has introduced himself as “Doc Scratch,” is looking past him, to the black carapace woman looming over his right shoulder.

 

Snowman takes a drag from her cigarette holder and blows it into Scratch's face with a smile. Dirk suppresses a cough. “The subject simply never came up.”

 

“I imagine the boy had questions,” Scratch says, unhindered by the smoke, “when he was first brought here.”

 

“You weren't present, so you weren't relevant to them,” Snowman replies sweetly.

 

“As the manor's proprietor,” Scratch replies, “I am always relevant.”

 

“You're not here very much anymore, though; you've neglected your duties as a host. I've had to step in.”

 

“Well, if you have the free time to do so, I suppose there's no harm in that. Forgive me, but it seems funny, a woman like you playing at hostess. Your place is in the field, dealing with those ruffians.”

 

“And a _good_ woman's place is as head of the household,” she chirps, gesturing with a lithe hand to said household. “What do you know, I've covered all my bases and come out on top as quite the multi-faceted, powerful female figure, haven't I? And I do make a _damn_ good host. Dirk's settled here quite comfortably under my tutelage.”

 

“Not too comfortably, I hope.” They can feel the haughty smirk in his voice. Dirk can tell from Snowman's face that she can hardly hold back a snort of amusement, at the thought of having an affair with Dirk.

 

Dirk's curiosity has been piqued; Snowman doesn't seem to like this Scratch character at all, judging from the honey dripping in her voice, the nasty, sarcastic smiles she has been aiming at him. Dirk has learned early on that she bares her teeth casually to demonstrate her ferocity, to establish dominance. Like a lioness might, but with more subtlety, fewer ear-shattering roars.

 

“I'm really not all that alarmed,” Dirk assures the newcomer, finally. He hopes his interruption doesn't sound like a cover up of the affair insinuation.

 

“I am glad to hear that.” Scratch bobs his head, almost like a polite bow. “It is nice to finally get to meet you, Mister Strider. My employer has told me a great deal about you.” Dirk wonders if that is a reference to the revolution or to the story-telling.

 

Dirk returns the pleasantries, not bothering to ask what the man holds a doctorate in, if anything. “You said you are the proprietor of this manor. I thought English owned this place?”

 

“He does,” Scratch says. “I was referring to my occupation as the head host, before I was usurped.” Over his shoulder, Snowman gives a wicked grin. “I took to raising the underaged wards. I commanded the servants of the household. Seeing as there no longer are any, though-”

 

“Save for the Felt,” Snowman cuts in, “who I've gotten to take to domesticity without complaint.”

 

“How gouache, miss Snowman, to employ mobsters at such cleanly and delicate tasks. As I was saying, because my house team has died, or been utterly usurped, I have been assigned to other tasks.”

 

“Such as?” Dirk prompts, when he fails to elaborate.

 

“You could say that I am in the business of handling recruits,” Scratch replies cryptically.

 

“Recruits for what?”

 

“Don't bother, Dirk,” Snowman cuts in with a sigh. “That's the most you're going to get out of him.”

 

“I'd say my work is terribly boring,” Scratch apologizes. “I am not disposed at this moment to go into it.”

 

I'm so sure, Dirk thinks. It's more likely that English has warned him against telling Dirk any details. The word “recruits” is the thing to finally alarm him about this Scratch character; recruits for what? An army? He means to ask Snowman later. Hopefully she will be able to shed some light on the situation.

 

Scratch takes one of Dirk's hands gently in both of his. The texture of his skin, which is pure white, is similar to Snowman's. “It is nice to have a new addition to our family. Especially one so stunning as you.”

 

Dirk's protests are drowned out by Snowman's laughter.

 

◎

 

Later on, Dirk, Snowman, and now Meenah are gathered in the main hall. They are not fighting, although they had been a moment ago, when they first passed through. Now they are staring, quietly and warily, at the front double doors.

 

They are open.

 

Dirk is the one who is the most uncomfortable with this development, whether or not he'll admit it. Meenah and Snowman are pretending to be more bothered by it than they actually are.

 

“It's chilly,” the troll woman complains.

 

“I don't know the point of leaving it open, if it's so ugly and cloudy outside,” Snowman sighs.

 

Not one of them makes a move to close the doors. The two women are trying to look subtly at Dirk, to gauge his reaction. He's just looking into the open air, the twisting woods, the grass, and silently wondering where on Skaia they are. Which country. Which continent. He looks so engaged in thought that they aren't sure if they should leave it be, or close it to spare him more agony. In any case, he's definitely got to be considering the fact that he's so close, yet cannot touch the grass, the leaves, the dirt, the various nature things. As they all know, as he knows most of all, the ring has him trapped inside.

 

“It was probably Scratch,” Snowman says, breaking the silence. “The Felt don't tend to care if it gets stuffy in here.”

 

Meenah's lip curls. She doesn't even like Dirk all that much, but she's angry. She's angry because she's trapped, too, if to a larger area, and Scratch probably left that door open deliberately, just to remind them how easy it is for him, that he can just carelessly leave doors hanging wide open without any screens to catch the bugs.

 

“I hate men,” she sneers. She means all men, or maybe men like Scratch, or maybe a mixture of the two. But she forgets, momentarily, that not all those who are present are women.

 

"That makes sense," Dirk snorts, reminding her.

 

“What?!” She turns on him, angry. “What is that supposed to mean?!”

 

“Well, you sure hate _me_. And I'm a man.”

 

Meenah snarls, "Like you hate me any less," about the same time Snowman laughs, "You're not a _man!_ "

 

Dirk and Meenah look to her in surprise.

 

“...But I am,” Dirk says, hearing a strange note of helplessness in his voice. Meenah, at first dumbfounded, is now cackling.

 

“Not in the narrowest sense of the definition!” Snow pipes up, having to speak over Meenah's laughter. “You're the picture of heroic masculinity when Mr. English desires it, but otherwise you're no more than a pretty trophy, his catamite, an honorary girl with half the allotted freedom. At least _I_ get to leave the house every once in a while. Meenah has the illusion of a kingdom. And what have you? Nothing, but a room full of thread and fabric, and it isn't even yours! He'll make an old maid of you, yet!”

 

Dirk scowls at her. “I thought you were through misgendering me?”

 

“You know I only do it because I love you,” she coos, reaching out to pinch his cheek. “We are friends now, this is how I show my affection.”

 

“You've been talking to me like that since day one!”

 

She flutters her white eyelashes at him. “I've had a soft spot for you since I first laid eyes on you.”

 

Meenah gags. “Oh, get a room, you two.”

 

“Funny,” Snowman says, petting Dirk's now reddened cheek as if to chase the color away. “Scratch implied we were sleeping together just this morning.”

 

Meenah rolls her eyes. Such a typical assumption from a person with such an atrocious blood color. “Please, I hardly think the Prince here could get it up for a woman, and a woman like you'd hardly be satisfied by such a _boy._ I just mean you're so pale for each other that it's gross as hell, you should save that cooing and cuddling crap for when I'm not around.”

 

Dirk blinks. “You think we're moirails?”

 

She snorts. Humans. “I _know_ you are.”

 

Snowman physically waves Meenah's comment off. “Don't project your race's strange romantic conventions onto us.” Her other hand lingers, perhaps subconsciously, on Dirk's shoulder.

 

Meenah makes a show of shrugging as sarcastically as she can. “Whatever! Deny the obvious! But I'll be there when one of you calms the other out of a murderous rage, and when it happens, I'm going to rub it in your _face_ that I was right and you two were mad pale for each other all along.”

 

“How are you ladies doing this evening?”

 

All three look over at once to where Scratch is emerging from the hall, still as dapper and faceless as he was mere hours ago. “I hope you don't mind my leaving the doors open. I know it's a hassle and bugs might get in, but there are so few windows in this place...”

 

“And you wanted to torture us with a view of the outside,” Meenah cuts in. “Yeah, we get it. Rubbing it in our faces you can run free while we're trapped little housewives. Awesome. You're a real pal.”

 

His chuckling is an eerie sound, especially without the body language necessary to properly convey it. “Why Meenah, I can't believe you would think so lowly of me. Of course I only opened the door for a bit of fresh air; I would never even think of hurting your feelings so. If it truly bothers you so much, you are free to shut the doors yourself. I am not the master of this household, after all. My word is not law.”

 

Meenah's hands flex, rings glittering as she does so. Then, with a huff, she stalks off, and slams both doors shut.

 

A serene smile seems to emanate from his words. “See? All better.”

 

His head swivels, although why, when it is the same and smooth all over, Dirk is unsure. He can't imagine that Scratch sees better from one part of the featureless expanse of sphere-head than another. Perhaps it's a habit Scratch has picked up to appear more sentient, to put people at ease with his bizarre appearance.

 

In any case, he _seems_ to be facing Dirk. “Although, if anyone has a right to be bothered, it is you, isn't it? Meenah and Snowman may both leave, so long as it is not discourteous to our master's wishes that they do so. Granted, their traveling ranges are limited, but there is a difference between not being able to leave the country and the situation that you, Mister Strider, find yourself in. The Felt tell me you cannot leave the house, or at least, you do not; have you tried, Mister Strider, to see how far you can get? The yard is quite beautiful, even in weather like this.”

 

He is a creature produced by magic. Dirk is almost sure of it. The way his voice emanates, unlike a man in a mask. His stillness. Scratch is different from the Felt and English both. He simply isn't natural.

 

“I prefer stagnant air,” Dirk replies. “The garden is usually the perfect temperature, if you need fresh air all that badly. Though you must not have, if you wandered off for so long.”

 

Dirk can practically feel the bemusement wrapped in the courtesy of Scratch's tone. “I wasn't gone for so long. There is no need to fret. I'm sure if you employ every one of those rowdy mobsters, you can kill every fly I've let in in no time.”

 

“I believe that's your responsibility. You let them in.”

 

He chuckles. “Killing pests isn't in my job description. Perhaps one of you can do it.”

 

Dirk can feel Meenah bristle, partly because his own skin crawled with rage at the exact same moment hers did.

 

“You're such a fucking ass,” Meenah snarls.

 

He chuckles as if she's just told a wonderfully charming joke. “And you're as prone to overreacting as ever, Meenah. It is a door. Don't attach any more significance to it than is necessary.”

 

Dirk feels Snowman's arm settle around his shoulders. “Let us three go to the parlor,” she says to them, “for a snack. We can admire my bloodstain on the lounge while we're there.”

 

“Bloodstain?” Everything about the emotion in Scratch's voice sounds manufactured. He is not a worldly creature who frets over such things easily, but does so anyway for appearances' sake. “My goodness, what have you all been up to while I was gone? Hopefully you've not let the place go to ruin in my absence.”

 

Snowman waves at him without making eye contact. “Oh, you know how dangerous my job is. One stain is worth a properly fixed wound, I think.” She's steering Dirk out of the hall by the shoulder, snapping and beckoning with her other hand for Meenah to follow. “I'm not some domesticated bark beast,” Meenah replies.

 

“I know you aren't. You're smarter; I've never gotten a single dog to respond to snapping, and here you are right at my heel. Snacks for everyone! We'll get something nice and salty. I know how you hate sweets, Meenah.”

 

Even without seeing his eyes, Dirk knows that Scratch's unwavering gaze follows them all of the way out of the room.

 

◎

 

With no jobs to distract them the Felt are occupying their time with other pursuits. Primarily, they seem to be on a mission to consume all of the alcohol and all of the food not carefully sequestered away that they can find.

 

“So much for snacks,” Snowman says, pressed against the wall of the kitchen. With a dozen green men of varying shapes and sizes crowding the room, it's difficult to get around. Their chairs are sloppily pushed out from a fold-out table they seem to have brought in themselves, wasting much-needed space, and either a lime suit jacket or a colorful hat with a number from one through fifteen is stacked or draped on every conceivable surface. It's loud, too: the Felt are collectively roaring with glee and pounding on the table in encouragement of two larger members who have their sleeves rolled up, and are in the middle of an arm-wrestling match. Dirk can barely make out Snowman's voice as she speaks.

 

“There is so much testosterone in this room,” she says. He thinks she's going to carry on that sentence. He's expecting a punchline when she says, “Is this the sort of thing you're used to doing with your revolutionary friends?”

 

He laughs anyway. “Let's head out.”

 

With the kitchen door closed behind them, the hall is eerily silent, save for the echoes of the Felt's roughhousing trailing, dying, behind them. “What did you all do today? I've never seen them this wound up.”

 

“Because you never leave your room,” Meenah grumbles.

 

“We were ambushed.” Snowman shrugs as if she feels this is the answer, but isn't herself sure why. “There was a lot of shooting, some brute shielded me with his body – as if I haven't been in a thousand before – and when it cleared, there was nothing left but testosterone and some new merchandise for us to sell. We wiped it down first, of course – even on the black market, one should never have to buy something so thoroughly used that it still has the previous owner's blood on it.”

 

They're about to wander in search of entertainment when a figure stumbles out of the kitchen in pursuit of them. “Wait – kid!”

 

Stitch's face is red with drink, but he seems to be holding his own better than some of the other men Dirk glimpsed. “Hey,” he says, “come join me for a drink! I haven't talked to you in days, how you been?”

 

Dirk lets the older man roughly pat him on the shoulder. He can smell the alcohol on his breath.

 

“I'm not much of a drinker,” Dirk confesses. He's been wary since he was young; alcoholism runs in the family. “I promise if you unlock the door, I'll come by sometime tomorrow, if you're feeling alright.”

 

“I don't get hangovers from this kind of girly drinking. No offense,” he says. Snowman shrugs. Meenah crosses her arms in a huff. Stitch lowers his voice, eyes not leaving the troll woman. “Sorry about locking you out,” he stage whispers. He's more drunk than he thinks. “It's just. _Her_ , you know.”

 

Oh, Dirk knows. “It's alright.” He awkwardly pats the older, shorter man on the back. “We'll catch up later.”

 

Stitch is getting ready to abandon his pursuits when another man comes out of the kitchen. “Stitch. Stitch!! Where the hell did you go?!”

 

The man is ridiculously tall, with crooked teeth and a voice suited to slapstick comedian. And he's fulfilling the role nicely right now; he's looking quite earnestly down the wrong side of the hall, yelling. “Over here!” Stitch calls. The big guy turns, sees him, and gives a grin. “You old bastard! Quit harassing those dames and get back in here!”

 

Dirk thinks the newcomer looks familiar. Snowman's knife-like elbow slamming into his ribcage seemed to indicate that, yes, actually, he should know who that guy is.

 

“Cans,” Snowman hisses. The guy who took the fall for his mirror destruction. A few weeks ago, it wouldn't have mattered if he saw Dirk, because so long as Snowman didn't say anything, he wouldn't have known it was Dirk's fault. But by this time, the human boy has destroyed dozens of mirrors throughout the house: there was no way a single person living there didn't know by now that he was the one truly responsible for destruction of the hall.

 

Despite his urge to leave, Dirk stays standing with Stitch and the others in the hall while Cans approaches. Meenah, unaware and likely uninterested of any of the drama Snowman and Dirk are currently mentally fretting over, heaves a dramatic sigh. “Fuck, I'm _bored._ Let's drink! I'll drink!”

 

Stitch looks unhappy at this prospect, but given Meenah's reputation with the Felt, it seems unwise to point out that the invitation wasn't for her.

 

“I didn't think alcohol affected trolls,” Snowman sniffs.

 

“It doesn't,” Meenah huffs. “But beating everyone's asses in drinking games will be more fun than hanging out with you two.”

 

“If the lady wants to drink, let her.” Cans nudges Stitch's elbow with one large fist. “That why you out here, you old dog? Trying to get some girls to join us, eh? Snowman! You haven't had a drink with us in ages, you come, too!”

 

“There's a reason it's been ages.” She winces. “Forgive me, but I prefer my drinking partners to be more... morose. You're all quite loud, and Quarters cheats at quarters. I can't abide by that sort of moral reprehensibility.”

 

Cans laughs, Dirk imagines, not in appreciation of her dry wit, but because he didn't understand the word and doesn't want to lose face. Or maybe Dirk is making judgements simply because of the type of person Cans is, seems to be, without having actually gotten to know him.

 

Cans wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “Hey, whatever. Come on, Stitch, let's go back before Sawbuck sucks the last of the liquor down. I got a girl like you wanted,” he says, pointing to Meenah.

 

“Actually, I came out here for Dirk,” Stitch finally clarifies. “Haven't seen him in ages, thought I'd invite him in for a glass or two...”

 

Cans seems to notice Dirk for the first time. He towers over the young man, not menacingly, but not in a way that's exactly comforting, either. “Eh? Really?” He smirks. Then, addressing Dirk, “You got time to drink on your mission to fuck up all the mirrors in the house? Huh?”

 

He laughs, loudly, raucously. Dirk feels Snowman inch closer to him, a protective gesture, and he gets all the hotter with embarrassment. “I'm sorry about that, by the way,” he mutters. “I didn't mean for anyone else to have to take the fall...”

 

“It's no problem, I didn't get punished too bad.” He eyes Dirk, sizing him up. “It'd be unfair for me to take revenge on you, anyway. I got some scruples, you know? I don't hit people who're smaller than me.”

 

“Bullshit,” Snowman snorts. “You've broken plenty of spines half your size.”

 

Cans shrugs. “Fine. Fine, you got me. I do hit people littler than me. But they got guns or knives or some shit. I don't hit...” He gestures at Dirk. “You know. Wards. Delicate types. You feel me?”

 

“Women?” Dirk supplies, dryly.

 

“Hey, you said it, not me!” He puts up his hands in defense, a gesture that is utterly symbolic, seeing as Cans could no doubt hold his own effortlessly should any of them make an attempt at offense. He turns to the other Felt member, tugs on his sleeve. “Come on, Stitch, don't bug him anymore, he's not the type, you know? Let's go back to the gang and drink. C'mon.”

 

He starts to pull Stitch away. Stitch scowls at being manhandled, but waves, hand brushing Dirk's in the process. It is not the texture Dirk is expecting; Stitch's skin is soft, almost... furry. Fuzzy.

 

The men leave. After a moment of hesitation – Cans seems to have forgotten about her – Meenah starts to follow them.

 

Snowman and Dirk watch the three disappear into the kitchen, a roar of noise greeting them as the door is opened, a hum of quiet following when it swings shut.

 

“One day,” Dirk says. “I just want one day to go by without anyone calling me a woman.”

 

“Why?” Snowman smirks. “Is that an insult?”

 

He glares at her, and, surprisingly enough, her smile dies away at the sight.

 

◎

 

Without Meenah's company, they're free to lounge on Dirk's bed. They feel like kids at a sleepover at times like this, when they're giddy and not unhappy, when Snowman isn't trying to coax him out of his depressive haze. She compliments him on his freshly cleaned sheets, and he praises her elaborate heels as “shoot-out appropriate” when she kicks them off across the room so that she can sit on his bed with ease.

 

“Our green friends were quite rowdy today. I'm quite used to them acting like that, especially when English isn't around. They get excited, they feel like they can breathe, too, you know? Of course you know. You seemed alarmed by their... rowdiness, though, their-”

 

“Maleness,” Dirk finishes. “But it's understandable, I think. I've been in a relatively quiet, all female space for some time. Granted, Meenah isn't terribly quiet, but... there's _one_ of her.” He picks at a loose thread on his comforter. “I've never seen them shouting and drunk like that. The last time I saw a huge group of drunk guys, I was among them. It's weird to be the trailing along the edge of that sort of crowd rather than being in its midst, although not unpleasant.”

 

Snowman falls back into his pillows with a sigh. “You said you didn't like to drink.”

 

“I really don't. I don't like to be drunk. It's barely fun to be _around_ drunk people.”

 

“You're not a fan of soberly mocking the drunken masses? Because I like to drink, but I like being the sober one even better. It's fun, to see people lose themselves.”

 

He doesn't say, “Seeing people lose themselves hits too close to home.” He doesn't say, “I've watched my sister in a downward spiral,” or, “My dad watched my mother in a downward spiral,” or, “I'm afraid I'm next.”

 

What he does is laugh, half-heartedly, and guess. “You like being in control.”

 

Snowman stretches, reminding him of a cat. “I like _relishing_ in my self-control. I like being far more in control of myself than others. I like that looking at others lose control from the outside feels a lot like I'm in control, even if I have no hold over them.” She splays her arms over her head. “I like being the boss. I'd always be the only one sober if I could manage it, but sometimes in order to lead, you have to play along with the troops and make them like you.”

 

He manages to pull the thread loose without ruining the comforter. He's thinking of being amongst revolutionaries, of enduring the shouts and affectionate pats on the shoulder produced when men meet alcohol. “Yeah,” he grumbles. It's the only reason he's ever deigned to imbibe.

 

The soft, greenness of his blankets reminds him. “I touched Stitch's hand earlier. It was soft.”

 

When he looks up from his hands, Snowman is looking at him quizzically. “Yes?” she says. “And what of it?”

 

“Well, I wasn't expecting it. I've been thinking this whole time that the Felt were mutant carapaces or something.”

 

She laughs at the prospect. “Mutants! My goodness, they look nothing like our kind. Such ugly jawlines they have, such ridiculous bodies. I'm a little insulted!”

 

He sighs. “What else was I supposed to think? If you go your whole life believing there are only three races capable of higher thought and language, then you're faced with veritable _aliens,_ you're going to try to fit them into your existing intellectual framework. I was doing what was best for my sanity in assuming they were carapaces!”

 

She half groans, half laughs. “But they're so atrocious looking! They'd be ranked so low on our hierarchy with body shapes like those. And so _green._ How would carapaces ever get so green?”

 

“Well, what the hell do you think they are, if they aren't carapaces? Frog men?”

 

He watches in awe as a shudder wracks her body to the core. “Of course not! Could you imagine anything more foul?”

 

“...Than frogs?”

 

She makes a retching sound. “Ghastly creatures!”

 

He laughs. He's never seen her express such distaste for something so trivial. “I think they're neat,” he says. “They're like this badass evolution metaphor, you know, the way they start out life, helpless, in the water, and then eventually make it to land and fend for themselves. It's inspiring.”

 

“Inspiring?!” Snowman looks at him with disbelief etched deeply into her face. “They're positively _retched!_ They're so slimy, and they eat bugs! Have you ever touched a frog?! They're so porous and so... so _unnatural!_ ”

 

It's really too funny to see her like this. “So I'm guessing you really hate the old Skaian cosmogony?” he guesses. He's referring to a religion carapaces have honored for centuries. He's not terribly educated on it; he's never been a religious person, and the only religions he was all that exposed to as a child was that of the old, grimdark religion, in which his mother dabbled, and that of the Signless. But the main component of Skaianity, which he's gathered from school and media, is...

 

“Who would ever think that the universe was a frog!” Snowman rants. “How could anyone ever think of anything so _horrid!_ ”

 

Something occurs to him. “Wait – wasn't Skaianity banned in Derse during your rule? Did you dismantle a religion because you think frogs are _gross?_ ”

 

“ _No,_ I dismantled Skaianity's power structure because it was a dangerous threat to my authority and to Derse's ability to be independent from Prospit.” She pauses. Then, “Getting rid of all those hideous murals and stained-glass frog portraits was certainly a plus, though...”

 

After several arguments about religion and the proper level of hatred one should expound towards harmless amphibious creatures, their conversation eventually finds its way back to the question of the Felt. If trolls, carapaces, and humans are not the only higher beings in the world, if there are more species out there, then it is possible Snowman's earlier pondering was right and Lord English is not a demon after all. He hasn't the tentacles, he hasn't the black, smoky magic characteristic of a demon. Perhaps, like the Felt, he is a creature of some lost race. But why pose as a demon? And what is his angle, in seizing control of Derse?

 

“In case you're worried,” Snowman cuts in on his pondering, “even if he isn't a demon, it's still a magic deal. He has to abide by his side of the bargain and leave your family alive.”

 

Dirk actually hadn't been thinking about that at all. “Oh. Right. Thanks.”

 

“The magical bond is created by mutual agreement,” she goes on. She thinks she's comforting him with an explanation. “No one, demon nor magic user, can ever use magic to control you, no matter how powerful they are, unless you initially agree.”

 

“Oh, well, what a relief. It's so nice to know that powerful magic users can't just control people willy-nilly, that they need violence and leverage to do that.” His hands clench. “And what better way of manipulation than threat of death – theirs or others – by that same magic?”

 

She shrugs. “Magic _is_ a weapon, after all. It's no different from a gun in any way other than that it requires a natural skill and power that few possess and fewer can learn to master.” She sighs. “I'd have liked to have been magic, but I never showed a propensity for it. So I stuck to honing my mind and my body.”

 

“How is that ever enough, when there are such powerful people in the world waiting to destroy everyone else?”

 

“When you use a mind and a body just right, you can find surrogate power. You can hide behind armies and walls and laws. It won't be magic power, but it'll be greater, better.”

 

He ponders this. The demon has both, he thinks. Magical and political domination. “...The demon is so powerful, but he won't reveal himself to the public. Do you think that means he's not invincible, that if enough people band against him, he could be taken down?”

 

“I think it means he knows what state of affairs will suit him best, regardless of danger to his person. Maybe he knows going public with his existence won't serve him nearly as well as working from the shadows. Hiding isn't always an act of cowardice or even of self-preservation – sometimes it is merely the domain in which one best functions.”

 

◎

 

He visits Stitch late the next day. When the older man inquires, jokingly, what took him so long to come, Dirk says point blank that he wanted to make sure Stitch's hangover had subsided.

 

The older man snorts. “I don't get hangovers,” he declares. “Only headstrong boys who refuse to drink water get hangovers. Which there are plenty of in this house right now, I'll tell you. None of them will be firing a gun or drinking any liquor for a while yet.”

 

Due to the roughness of the Felt's recent job (and the preceding festivities), there's an influx of tattered suit jackets and dress shirts and pants, in addition to the usual piles of socks in desperate need of darning. Dirk abandons independent projects to help Stitch with his workload, for which the green man thanks him profusely. He doesn't try to persuade Dirk not to help him, though. “Don't offer help if you're not willing to give it!” he grunts, and Dirk assures him he won't go back on his word.

 

Eventually, Stitch sets aside the Felt's jackets he's managed to mend in favor of getting up and going behind a screen in the back of the room. He emerges with an enormous technicolor coat with lapels that flash in a myriad of seizure-inducing colors.

 

Dirk recognizes it right away. “Is that Lord English's coat?”

 

“Yup,” Stitch replies. He drapes it awkwardly over his worktable. A spool of thread perched precariously on the edge falls to the floor, but he takes little notice of it. He is busy leaning onto the work table, trying to push the heavy piece of clothing onto the surface while avoiding letting it touch the dusty floor. “Over there, do you see it? A thicker thread. Bright green. It's a special kind. Could you hand it to me?”

 

“They're all green.”

 

“Yeah, but I mean that one.” He points with the hand not supporting the weight of the coat. “As in, the only one that's glowing.”

 

Dirk looks at it admiringly before handing it over. “Glowing thread.” He spots the holes in the coat, where they're positioned. “Won't you need another spool? In another color?”

 

“Nope. Watch this.” Stitch begins to sew a hole in one of the color-changing blocks of fabric on the lapel. As the needle tugs the hole closed, the thread seems to utterly disappear. The light emanating from the square of fabric seems to glow brighter as a whole, too. “Wow,” Dirk murmurs. “Are you by any chance magic?”

 

“We've all got our talents,” Stitch replies, cryptically. “I just happen to be extraordinarily good at mending difficult holes in jackets.”

 

Dirk pauses in his own work to watch Stitch. He wonders who produced the thread – English or Stitch himself. He wonders, too, if it takes a propensity for magic to use it, or if the enchantment lies in the thread itself.

 

Dirk's mind is so preoccupied that they end up working in a deathly silence.

 

◎

 

He and Snowman had talked about Scratch, too.

 

“And what do you think he is?” she'd mocked. “Another mutant carapace? Now, _him_ I'd understand. He's awfully white...”

 

“That wasn't exactly what I had in mind,” Dirk cut in. “I was thinking he wasn't natural at all. I was thinking he may be a homunculus of some sort.”

 

She looked at him startled. “What ever gave you that impression?”

 

“Nothing about him seems quite right. English and the Felt have some semblance of life, like... emotions, movements. He doesn't. He's too...” He searched for a word and didn't quite find it. “...Cold.”

 

Her mouth twisted. “You are often cold, too.”

 

“I've had several quite emotional moments. With you, at least.”

 

“Crowbar is calm.”

 

“But he's still... he still has emotions, even though he controls them. He's real. I don't know how to explain it – Scratch isn't merely calm. He's utterly lacking in real emotion. Crowbar's calm, you're calm, I'm calm, but there are moments of breakage. Crowbar has looked at me with such contempt. He's spoken to me with begrudging respect. Scratch... There's something _missing._ It's not just that he doesn't have eyes to read, he doesn't _move_ right. The inflections in his voice are manufactured sounding, fake. And... I mean, how can anything live without a mouth?!”

 

“I assumed he was wearing a mask when I first met him.” Past tense.

 

She wasn't meeting his gaze. She was just lounging, idly. Dirk crossed his arms. “What is he, Snow? What do you know?”

 

She'd shrugged. “Only that you're probably right.”

 

“Snow...”

 

After a long pause, she sat up, meeting his gaze. “He got mortally wounded, once,” Snowman said. “By Damara.”

 

She was utterly serious. Dirk leaned in, eager to hear what she had to say.

 

◎

 

Back in the present, Stitch steps out for a moment. He tells Dirk that visitors can just drape their damaged goods on the chair by the door. Then Dirk is alone.

 

Later, Dirk can't help but feel that, with the sheer coincidence of what happened next, the luck of it happening at all, or so soon after his conversation with Snowman, that it must have been set up. Later, Dirk thinks that the demon is toying with him, offering him morsels of information like this. In the moment, however, this does not occur to Dirk, at least not consciously. His only focus is on using the situation to his advantage. And in this case, the situation is this:

 

A polite knock sounds at the door, grabbing Dirk's attention. He means to tell the entering figure what to do with his clothes, but the words die in his throat.

 

Scratch walks in, perfectly composed as per usual save one thing: his right arm is severely torn at its socket. In place of blood, white stuffing, like the sort one would find in a doll, bursts lazily from the wound.

 

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mister Strider. Is Stitch not in?”

 

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “He's in the back,” Dirk says suddenly, after a pause. “Behind the screen. He's just so engrossed in what he's doing – you should go back and tell him you're here.”

 

“Really?” Scratch glances over. No response has come from that part of the room, but then, with all the junk in the way, he can't tell if he sees a body or not. He takes a step forward, to see better, and probably immediately regrets it. Dirk gets to the door quickly, easily from where he was, shuts it, and locks it.

 

Scratch feigns innocence. “Does Stitch like complete privacy when he works?”

 

“Stitch isn't here.”

 

“Ah. I figured. I was just making light of my situation. Are you going to hurt me, now? Is that really all that wise?”

 

Dirk takes a step forward. “I guess we'll just have to find out whose life English values most.”

 

Scratch's attempts to get away are half-hearted; perhaps he knows this is a physical battle he can't win. In any case, it's been ages since Dirk so triumphantly pinned anyone as he is now, the weight of his elbow on the other man's back keeping him on the floor, his other hand clutching the loose thread on Scratch's wound. Scratch is surprisingly light-feeling – despite his posture and elegance giving him an air of solidity, of substance, he feels more like a sturdy, burlap doll than a carapace.

 

“You're going to tell me what I want to know,” Dirk says, “or I'll tear you apart limb by limb.”

 

“Go ahead,” Scratch says. “But if you had questions you wanted answered, you could've just ask-”

 

His words die curiously when Dirk yanks the thread, popping several stitches loose. “I think you know that what I'm going to ask you aren't the sort of questions one answers willingly. You've all been hiding information from me since I got here, and I want to know, now. Why was I kidnapped?”

 

Scratch makes a bizarre sound. It takes Dirk a moment to realize it's a sigh. “Really?” Scratch says. “That's the question you begin with? How terribly self-centered.”

 

Dirk tightens his grip threateningly. “Tell me what you know!”

 

“You are not important,” Scratch says without malice. “You are here because English wants you to be.”

 

These words threaten to break Dirk's composure. He stifles the painful blow to his pride and plows on with the interrogation, voice hard. “What exactly am I not important to? What does English want with Derse?”

 

“Which question do you want me to answer first? You're confusing me.” The lack of inflection in Scratch's voice makes it clear that he isn't confused so much as he's stalling for time.

 

“They're the same question,” Dirk says. Scratch, curiously, has no reply to that. Dirk's grip lightens. “...Aren't they?”

 

“In the grand scheme of things,” Scratch says, “you are not important.”

 

Dirk narrows his eyes. “No one is.”

 

“Ah, that is where you're wrong.”

 

Dirk's elbow dig's savagely into Scratch's back, but he doesn't flinch or groan. He doesn't react as any ordinary creature would because he isn't, of course, ordinary. “But I'm important to something smaller, aren't I?”

 

“You are important to many smaller things. Most people are. For instance, you are probably very important to your friends and family members.”

 

“Am I unimportant to English? What is English's 'grand scheme?'”

 

“That I cannot tell you.”

 

“Because you don't know?”

 

“Because I haven't the authority.”

 

He tries a different tactic. “Why has English taken over Derse?”

 

“So he has access to its facilities.”

 

“But why does he _need_ access to those facilities?”

 

“Does he _need_ those facilities? Does anyone ever _need_ anything?”

 

Dirk savagely rips out another stitch. “Tell me what he wants Derse for! Why did he install Meenah on the throne?!”

 

“That's an easy one. He finds her skill for genocide useful.”

 

Dirk's blood runs cold. “What?”

 

Scratch, mercifully, doesn't feign ignorance at the one-word question. “She is an expert at killing her kind. He wants her kind dead. It is an ideal arrangement, isn't it?”

 

Her kind? As in, _all_ trolls? “...The genocide is only targeting low bloods.”

 

“Is it?” asks Scratch.

 

Stitch will be back soon, and Dirk knows that Scratch has been stalling for time. He has to get as much information as he can, while he has this chance. “...Is English responsible for the death of the lusii?”

 

Scratch hums. “Very impressive, Mister Strider. You're quite skilled at making connections.”

 

“That isn't an answer!”

 

“No, you're quite right. It was praise.”

 

Dirk, frustrated, under pressure, switches gears again. “Is he killing high bloods, too?!”

 

“No,” Scratch says. “He doesn't need to orchestrate that.” The fact he doesn't _need_ to implies it is already happening, implies he is glad it is happening.

 

“Are you going to ask who's killing the high bloods?” Scratch asks, but Dirk doesn't need to. He already knows. Instead he asks, “ _Why_ is he killing all trolls? Why does he care about eradicating their race?”

 

“How are trolls usually killed?” Scratch asks. “They're shot and stabbed in the streets, yes. But on a larger scale, how are they killed?”

 

Dirk doesn't know why it matters. He wishes Scratch would just answer him bluntly, but no matter how he threatens to injure him, Scratch refuses to drop the cryptic act, if he even deigns to answer the question. Dirk thinks of trolls, low bloods, warm bloods, mutants...

 

And it hits him. “They're culled,” he breathes. “They're gathered in huge groups. It's easier to slaughter them that way.”

 

“That's not all you think, is it?” Scratch asks.

 

“He wants them dead,” Dirk says. “The entire race, but that's not all. What the hell else does he want? Why just trolls, why not humans, why not carapaces? What does he have against trolls? Dammit, _answer my questions!_ ”

 

He tugs another stitch loose. “That doesn't hurt me,” Scratch says, finally.

 

“A homunculus,” Dirk says, “needs to be whole to survive.”

 

Scratch doesn't reply at first. Then, “Your mother was a seer.”

 

He isn't surprised Scratch knows. Most of the kingdom knows his family. “So I know these things.”

 

“Seers can't make homunculi. Their talent lies in foreseeing probable outcomes of predesignated paths.”

 

“Quit pondering out loud and tell me what English wants with the trolls!”

 

“Laymen do not know about the intricacies of homunculi, either. You wouldn't have just read it in a book. Only a magic user of the highest orders would have access to such information. A mage would have had to tell you. A mage or...”

 

“Quit making small talk,” Dirk snarls, “or I _will_ kill you!”

 

“Why don't you ask you carapace friend what she's scouring the perimeter for when she isn't supposedly looking for your... male companion? His name was similar to our lord's, if I recall?”

 

How does he know about Jake? What does Snowman have to do with this? “I know what she's doing. She's an arms dealer.”

 

Scratch tuts. How, without a tongue and teeth, Dirk isn't sure. “Do you really think a network of such scope doesn't serve other functions? Do you know what sorts of information the dregs of society with which she deals can hold?”

 

“Snowman would tell me if she knew something about English's plans!”

 

“Really? Did you ask her?”

 

Of course he has. He's asked her about so much, and she's always said she doesn't now. He trusts her. This is a trick, an attempt to twist things, to turn him against her.

 

He shouldn't be letting this get to him. “...You said supposedly.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You said she was _supposedly_ looking for Jake. Is she looking for him or not?”

 

“You think she is,” Scratch replies.

 

Dirk shakes with rage. “You're lying. You're lying, you're trying to turn me against her!”

 

“Now, Dirk.” Scratch's voice is dripping with mechanical condescension. “If you were going to craft a servant for yourself out of magic, what would be the purpose of making him capable of telling _lies?_ ”

 

Dirk feels helplessly frustrated, unsure of what to believe. “Don't you care that I can kill you?!”

 

“I can't care,” Scratch replies. “I was not programmed to be able to care. The reason I do not want to die is because it will mean I have failed in my duty to my master. But he can easily replace me, and so I will die if I must, without complaint.”

 

At that moment, the door handle jiggles. “Dirk? You in there?”

 

“I think it'd be best if you got that,” Scratch says. Dirk glares down at him, pinning him for another moment or two, before begrudgingly rolling off and getting up. He doesn't bother to offer Scratch a hand, hearing the other man stand up and brush himself off behind him.

 

Dirk opens the door with an apologetic smile. “I wasn't thinking,” he tells Stitch. “I must have locked it absent-mindedly, without realizing.”

 

There's a suspicious look in Stitch's eye. It magnifies when his gaze falls on Scratch standing several feet away, his damaged arm being supported by the other.

 

“We were having a marvelous conversation,” Scratch says. “I hadn't even noticed the door was locked, either.” Then, to Dirk, “You'll have to be more careful, my friend.”  
  


Of course, he's telling Dirk that, next time, he'll need to watch out for time constraints and avoid getting caught, not the “accidental” locking of any door. Funnily enough, there's not a single person in the room who thinks he's talking about locking the door, although Stitch isn't precisely sure what went on while he was gone. He's not sure he wants to know, either, and decides to focus on the most pressing matter at hand. “...What happened to your arm?”

 

There is a stifling moment where Dirk thinks Scratch will credit him with the injury, but instead, he sticks to only half of the truth. “English. I'm afraid he's angry, as per usual.”

 

Stitch looks surprised. “He's here? I thought he'd be busy for a while yet.”

 

“No, he was only dropping by for a moment, to talk to me. We did more than talk, though, as you can plainly see.” Scratch flexes his fingers on his injured arm, again because he seems to think it's what a normal person would do.

 

Stitch gives a gruff sigh. “I'll sew you up.” He heads to his table, grabs the glowing thread, and gestures for Scratch to sit in his chair. He's threaded the needle and resown about an inch before he looks up at Dirk. “You okay?”

 

Dirk blinks. “What?”

 

“You've been just standing there, glaring at us. You okay?”

 

Dirk realizes he really has been glaring daggers at Scratch, but he feels shaken, his control over himself slipping. He's not sure he can stand to be around other people for much longer. He's not sure he has the energy required to pretend to be normal.

 

Dirk bites his lip. “I just remembered. I have something else to do. Right now.”

 

Stitch nods. “Alright.” Dirk moves, almost staggering, out the door. He has just passed the threshold when Stitch calls to him again, “Take care of yourself, kid.”

 

◎

 

He doesn't take care of himself. He does quite the opposite; instead of confronting Snowman, he isolates himself, he frets. He thinks about what Scratch has told him.

 

He trusts Snowman, but he really doesn't have any reason to. She's just another one of English's lackeys, just like Scratch. She may be a battered wife, but she's still working for him. There's so much she could be hiding from Dirk.

 

Jake could be dead, and yet she's feeding him fabricated rumors of his wellbeing to placate him.

 

No – no, no, no, no. He shouldn't be falling for this. Scratch is manipulating him. Meenah has said, he is a manipulator.

 

_It's just a door._

 

Dirk twists the conversation in his head until the leads, the revelations about the Alternian genocide are eclipsed by doubts, doubts that his only friend in this wretched prison could very well be working against him. He's never even been to her room. He knows nothing of her childhood, her interests outside of work and her bossiness. They don't know each other at all. They're not real friends. She's just a femme fatale, offering him friendship instead of sex and using it to break him down as her master commands.

 

_It's been a while,_ his doppelganger breathes, hot, against his mouth. _Where have you been?_

 

His hands reach out to his, breaking the mirror in its attempts to get out. He takes his hands in his. He begins to carve until his fingers tremble and feel numb and are swathed in blood. _Let me draw you a picture. It's been a while since I've drawn any pictures._ Hard, red lines bloom along his wrists. _Here. Some shackles to go with that collar he made for you._

 

He wants to destroy himself until he's not of any use to English. He wants death to be his only option.

 

He wants to wake up in a palace bed at aged six, with Snowman as Derse's benevolent queen, his parents and his little sister dozing gently in the rooms next door, for his war to have never happened, for this captivity to be nothing more than a nasty nightmare.

 

Self destruction, in this case, is the wish more easily granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ive been searching tirelessly for the answer to this question: does alcohol affect trolls??? I feel like during the intermission that covered rose's alcoholism, it was implied that trolls don't have substances like alcohol? Do you think that's because it doesn't affect them, because it was never made in their culture, or because getting fucked up on assorted substances isn't considered fun or poetic or interesting in troll culture?? like if it's never clear and is just up for interpretation, i'll leave this chapter alone, but let me know if I'm wrong, i'll alter the chapter, it'll take like two seconds.


	10. The Dissolution of Logos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit, we're getting so close to the end!

She takes in the blood, the broken glass, and the single, sobbed, “Scratch,” and she understands.

 

She sighs. “You silly boy – why didn't you come to me immediately instead of internalizing it like this? Come, come, we'll get you cleaned up, and then we'll talk about whatever it is he's told you.”

 

♦

 

After he's patched up, she takes him to her room for the first time. Before letting him inside she jolts in realization, commands him to stay right where he is, and goes inside with the door shut behind her. He hears the sound of items being tossed around and a door being slammed shut, and before long, she opens the door and invites him inside.

 

“Just had to hide some embarrassing things,” she says, breathlessly. “Don't open my closet door, by the way.” He looks at her suspiciously. She sighs. “I know Scratch has got you doubting me, but trust me, what I've hidden is... just a little too intimate for us to share, even as close friends as we are.”

 

Her room is entirely violet. Dirk had been expecting something monochrome and sleek-looking, perhaps black and white like a checkerboard, minimalist and fashionable. Instead he is met by vehement Dersite nationalism. Her bed lacks a canopy, but is king-sized, with dramatic, tower-like posts and a headboard that seems to be made of wrought-iron vines. Her room is large – large enough that there are several mannequins adorned in her nicer gowns, to keep them from getting wrinkled in drawers or from losing their shape on hangers. It's a dramatic room, elegant, yet strangely outdated, at least to Dirk. He supposes he'd forgotten how much older she is than him.

 

“You'd said you'd never seen my room before. So, what do you think?”

 

She gestures grandly to the room, grin wide. She's trying too hard. He's not impressed. He doesn't care to see this private, sacred space of hers, at least not under these conditions. He stands by the door with his arms wrapped around himself and his gaze trained on the floor, trying to interact with the space as little as possible.

 

He starts with the least painful thing. “Scratch said that there's something about your work for English that you haven't been telling me.”

 

Snowman sighs. “Is that all? Dirk, don't take him at face value. He tends to stretch the truth, or omit it as he sees fit.” She crosses her arms. “There _is_ a lot I don't tell you, but it's all the dull parts. I don't explain business transactions, I don't tell you the exact number of knives we've sold or how high we've inflated prices on rifles, but that doesn't change the fact-”

 

“He told me that English wants the entire troll population dead. Not just rebellious low bloods. Not just Signless worshippers. Not just radicals or mutants – _all_ of them.” There is something in his voice, like anger, but more contained. He's confused about how exactly to feel, knowing only that he is hurt. “And right after Scratch told me that, he said to ask what you were searching the borders for. He told me your information network was huge.”

 

“And it is,” she quickly replies. “Please. I know the tiles are a dazzling color, but talk to me. Not the floor.”

 

Though her words seem condescending, there's not an ounce of mockery in her tone. Dirk didn't think it was possible to be sarcastic and plaintive at the same time. He lifts his gaze, but only by a fraction, to her elegant boots. “Did you know about the genocide?”

 

“The fact that he wants the entire troll population dead? It's news to me, but it's unsurprising.”

 

Dirk's gaze lifts by another fraction. “What else are you looking for,” he asks, “when you scour the perimeters of Derse?”

 

She is quiet for a while. He lifts his gaze to her face just as her eyes widen in realization. “Trolls,” she says. “Oh, of course he brought it up because of that!” She sighs, her mouth twisting. “One of my assignments – because I deal with such an underground information network, because I spend so much time by the borders smuggling weapons, _because_ I deal with so many radical trolls, is to look for someone. A troll girl, a limeblood.”

 

Dirk's brow furrows. “A limeblood? Aren't they...?”

 

“Dead? With the Alternian Empire? Yes, I thought they'd been wiped out when those creatures that raise them started to die – they were a small caste to begin with, and when reproduction rates plummeted, they were the first to disappear.” She pauses. “Or so we thought. Apparently there are some left. Or, one. I can't imagine what she's done to make our husband hunt her so, and even less how she's managed to elude him for so long. But he wants her.” 

 

Dirk isn't angry at the revelation so much as surprised. “Why am I just now hearing about this?”

 

Snowman frowns. “I never felt it was relevant. I still don't see how it's _important_ – interesting, maybe, because she's the last of her kind. But important?”

 

Dirk sighs. “Troll blood is so arbitrary, though. Mutants with brand-new blood colors are always popping up. If she's important, it must be because of something other than her blood color. Maybe she did something to him. Maybe she knows something.”

 

Snowman shrugs. “It hardly matters. No one I've talked to has ever heard of such a person. I'm not so sure she isn't a figment of the demon's imagination.”

 

Satisfied that she has answered his questions, Snowman begins to move about the room. She apologizes for the lack of chairs, says the bed is plenty big enough to lounge on but the headboard is extremely uncomfortable to lean against given all the pointy pieces. And then she notices Dirk hasn't moved from his spot by the door. He looks like he wants to run.

 

She's about to sigh, to ask him what else is wrong, when he meets her gaze.

 

“There's just one more thing.” His eyes flit away from hers again, his expression faltering. “Scratch said... Scratch _implied_ you weren't really looking for Jake.”

 

There is a moment, where her eyes are wide, where her stance is stiff, and Dirk thinks, _he was right._

 

But then Snowman's expression falls into one of warmth, and she moves towards him. “Yes. Yes, of course I've looked for him. I haven't had any leads in ages. But I've tried as hard as I could for you.”

 

She comes close to him and wraps his hands in hers. Her fingers, lithe and dark, seem so much realer than his pallid, bony hands. She's a person of substance, alive; he's a wisp, a ghost, emaciated by willful starvation and lack of sunlight and mental deterioration. He doesn't understand how she stays so strong.

 

“Scratch never lies,” Snowman says. “I told you before – English thought that if he gave Scratch the power to lie, then Scratch could turn against him. Scratch never tells the whole truth, either, though. Even for a thing that isn't wholly real, he has an excellent grasp on language and manipulation. Whatever happened between you two, I can guarantee you he was only trying to turn you against me.”

 

“But why?”

 

She shrugs. “The fun of chaos. English doesn't like when his wards are happy on their own. He believes our lives and our feelings should revolve around him.”

 

Dirk's hands are limp in hers, wary to return the affectionate strokes and squeezes. He doesn't want to look into her eyes. She can tell he feels vulnerable, unsure of who to trust. She begins to massage one of his wrists.

 

“I've earned your trust,” she whispers. “Over and over. And you've earned mine. I've done so much for you. Don't throw that away on the word of some stranger.”

 

After a pregnant silence, his hands grip hers back.

 

♠

 

They are passing one another on the first floor hallway, in the east wing. She's heading outside for a cigarette, and he's likely heading in the direction of her room because he knew she'd be there, and he wanted to run into her.

 

How terribly predictable, Snowman thinks, when Scratch calls to her from the end of the hall. “I had an interesting conversation with the prince yesterday.”

 

“What a coincidence,” Snowman coos. “I had the same thing happen to me just now. He's in my room upstairs, if you'd like to have another.”

 

“There is no need.” Scratch crosses his arms behind his back. Snowman recognizes the stance – it's the same one a military leader takes when he inspects his troops. The same stance a king takes when he wants his subjects to feel small.

 

She is a good two feet taller than him, and uses them to look down on him. “I take it you didn't stop me in the hallway for passive-aggressive chitchat, even if it's what we're best at. Get on with it – what do you want?”

 

“It's unlike you, to want to skip idle banter.”

 

“Yes, well, I'm busy. I can't keep the prince waiting too long, you know, we were just getting to the good part.” She winks at Scratch. She finds it funny, that he thinks she's sleeping with the boy. She's not sure why; she just likes it when people can't read her properly. Encountering false assumptions gives her a thrill, assures her, _you are the only one who really knows what's going on here_.

 

“Very well. I won't keep you long.” He pauses. Then, “Do you really have to smoke that here?”

 

“Now that you've prevented me from going to the garden, yes.” She places a cigarette into a long, black holder and lights it, taking a drag. “I know what you're thinking. 'Isn't that cigarette holder a bit gaudy? Do you _really_ need it? You're not going to an opera, you're just wandering around the house.' Well, I like the second filtration, and I don't think one ever needs a fancy event as an excuse to be fashionable.”

 

“It never crossed my mind to criticize you,” Scratch replies politely. “I was merely hoping you wouldn't smoke inside, for fear of damaging the lungs of those who don't smoke.”

 

“The Felt smoke. You don't have lungs. And Dirk doesn't care.” She grins like a lioness. “Now, tell me about your conversation with Dirk. What about it was so interesting?”

 

“Dirk knew how to kill me.”

 

Snowman doesn't answer right away. She takes a long drag, and then blows out a slow, impressive shape of smoke. “Well. He's quite experienced at killing people.”

 

“Yes, but most soldiers do not know how to kill homunculi.”

 

Snowman tilts her head. “Really? That wasn't in Derse's public school curriculum? I could have sworn I mandated it.”

 

Scratch doesn't find her playing coy very amusing. “You told him how to kill me.”

 

“You _think_ that I-”

 

“Lord English told you not to tell him anything that might provoke him to violence. Your job is to placate him. This is the second time you have failed to keep him in line.”

 

“I didn't think that telling him what you were would make him violent. He had questions and so I answered them, which isn't in violation of any of English's wishes.” She pauses. “Did he attack you?”

 

“As I understand from what the others have told me, you two are quite inseparable. He didn't tell you?”

 

He hasn't had a chance to, yet. She was going to coax what had happened out of him after her cigarette break. God damn it, Dirk... “I'm sorry, it won't happen again. I never thought he'd even get the _chance_ to attack you – how ever did you let that happen?” Scratch doesn't reply. After some time, it's clear he doesn't plan on answering her. 

 

She inhales deeply, exhales. She's so eager to talk that wisps of smoke are still rising her mouth as she says, “Don't think you're the only one who's allowed to be annoyed.”

 

“I don't get annoyed. I am incapable of being annoyed.”

 

“Hush! It's my turn to ask questions. Why did you tell Dirk I wasn't looking for his boyfriend?”

 

“Why _didn't_ you tell him?” Scratch replies. 

 

She huffs in frustration. “I was giving him _hope._ See, this is why you weren't made responsible for placating him. You'd be terrible at it.”

 

“You could lay the blame elsewhere,” Scratch points out. “You're only following orders. All you had to do was be honest with him and tell him our master has forbidden you from retrieving the English boy or from passing any messages along between them.”

 

“You don't understand – that would destroy him! He'd have never warmed up to me if I'd-”

 

“You weren't ordered to be friends,” Scratch says, cutting her off. “You have all the company you could ever want in this house. Yet you are bent on befriending these strays. You risk ruining your job for fear of loneliness. If you aren't careful, such weakness may lead to your downfall.”

 

She glares at him. “Risk my job? Well. I never failed with Damara,” Snowman utters. “English took the easy way out with her. He couldn't get her to suppress her desire to leave him, and so he traded her for a more willing model. It's not my fault I couldn't crush her free will! And another thing – my method is _not_ weak. I've kept them from killing off the Felt, haven't I? I've kept them from killing each other, and you're certainly not dead!”

 

“Meenah killed two Felt. Yesterday, I had to bargain for my life with Dirk.”

 

“Well, he made living an option for you, didn't he? And Meenah hasn't killed since, has she?” Snowman takes an aggressive step forward. “Only one attempt has been made on English's life in all of the years I have been here. So don't you dare tell me, looking in from the outside, that I do not know how to do my job! I was brought in because _you_ failed to keep Damara in line. It is _you_ who has nearly damaged things with Dirk, playing us against each other, forcing _me_ to clean up after you yet again!” Her clenched hands shake, ash falling from her cigarette in droves with the force of her fury. 

 

“ _I_ am the one who brought Derse from the pit of destitution!” she cries. “I am the one who has been entrusted with one of the largest crime organizations in our country's history! I _know_ how people work. I _know_ how to make them do what I want them to do. I am the expert on the mind! And _you,_ sir, are just a talking puppet, playing at having a soul!”

 

She jabs him in the chest on this last sentence, her finger sinking eerily into the plush that makes up his body. She realizes she's lost her composure, but she doesn't care. Having emotions doesn't make her inferior to this... talking _toy_.

 

“Are you finished?” Scratch patiently replies. Snowman doesn't let the comment deflate her. She takes a step back, straightens her blazer, and replies, “Yes. I am quite finished with you.”

 

They disperse. She heads for the garden, desperate to quell her shaking with fresh air and the dregs of her cigarette. She doesn't see where Scratch goes; she only hopes he leaves the mansion soon.

 

♠

 

He dreamed they cut him open, and fuchsia poured from his veins. He dreamed gray faces called him a hypocrite and strung him up as they had their messiah.

 

Sometimes he dreams of the faces of the people he's killed. But only sometimes. He rarely got a good enough glimpse for them to properly haunt him.

 

♠

 

He awakes with a groan, his eyes still closed. His room is silent in a way that only a tower isolated from the rest of the house can be. He's too many floors above the bustle of life to hear voices or movement. A strong breeze momentarily wracks the house, and would have been made all the more bizarre to him had he been looking into the garden, and seen that the way it was trapped on four sides by the house made it so the wind didn't jostle the leaves and flowers at all.

 

As it is, he remains in bed, too deep beneath the covers to see his window. He opens his eyes and sees the soft green light of day soak through the fabric. As he stares idly into nothing, the vestiges of dream emotion retract their claws from his psyche and slip away, stalling their next attack for when he slips back into unconsciousness.

 

Or into a mental breakdown, which is also highly likely.

 

He'd been mostly well until Scratch had appeared. He hadn't broken a mirror for almost a week, and hadn't hallucinated in almost as long. But now, even days after the mysterious little man has vanished, he still feels like the contents of his mind have been jostled by a malicious hand. He's been having terrible nightmares – some the product of explicit, horrific fantasy, others pulled from the recesses of his war-wrecked mind.

 

If he closes his eyes, he can see the violet streets of Derse's capital, his hands enclosed around the neck of some traitorous human who benefitted from Meenah's rule. He can smell blood, see the faces of the fearful and the dying.

 

He doesn't feel his own anger, though, nor bloodlust. He just feels as though he ran a marathon in his sleep. He's not just exhausted – his heart feels like it's pumping so hard and so quick that it will burst.

 

He lies in bed a while longer, but the feeling never dissipates. Eventually, he forces himself to get up. Food and water will dissolve his jitteriness, and company will bring him back to the real world.

 

He thinks he might skip napping today. In fact, he thinks, with images from last night's terror flashing like an electric shock through his skull, he may just go to bed later. He needs to cut back on sleep, anyway. His current way of life can't be healthy.

 

♠

 

He'd dreamed of how he'd marveled at how easily the pawn's head had been severed, despite the supposed thickness of his species' shells, marveled at how the color of his blood had been the exact same shade as his own.

 

He wondered if that first carapace he killed had family. He wondered if perhaps he had to go around, rounding up those nobles who were like Dirk's family, who weren't loyal to her Condesce, in order to feed that family. He wondered if victimhood could be extended to those who upheld systems of oppression if they were forced into their roles.

 

Amidst the panic of his own family members, Dirk had carefully placed the black carapace's head on the ground, resigned. There was no use romanticizing the carapace's life. He was dead. And because he was dead, they survived.

 

They needed to move fast if they wanted to remain that way.

 

♦

 

Sometimes, Dirk looks in the mirror and sees nothing but a featureless expanse of shiny, monochromatic shell where his face should be. Sometimes, he sees a color other than red sitting beneath his skin.

 

Sometimes, he's wearing the expensive garb he wore as a small child, when his family still retained its social class more than just metaphorically.

 

His body is like a map, the way it's been littered with scars. Except every territory belongs to the same person; not himself, the native of the body, but a cruel invader who drew the lines there. (This is what he tells himself, even as the scar around his neck fades, even as the borders he's drawn on his hands and arms grow deeper and darker, permanent. The demon doesn't have to have been present for their creation to be responsible for those marks.)

 

He feels he identifies with Skaia, the continent split down the middle by Prospit and Derse. He wonders what it looked like before the white carapaces decided they were better than the black ones and drove them into smog-infested slums. He wonders if his grandparents were alive if they'd be able to tell him.

He wonders if Roxy's elderly, Alternian tutor would know. She'd lived in the Alternian Empire when it still existed, an island big enough to be its own continent. Before it'd been ravaged by disease and famine, the troll woman had fled. She always feigned ignorance when they asked why she left, and as children of nobility, they were too polite to ask for her caste.

 

Tracing silver territorial markers across his hands, Dirk thinks idly that he and Roxy always suspected the wonderful lady of being rather batty. She said things about Alternia that seemed too terribly forgiving – but then, old folks love to idealize the past, to pretend there was a time when everything was better – and once or twice, she referred to Alternia by its name when it had been a republic, Beforus. But heavens knew Alternia hadn't been a republic for hundreds of years – the troll woman would have to be quite high on the caste system for her to have known it.

 

Dirk could picture the loony old dear now, always dressed so formally. He'd never seen her in anything but her official gown, with the ceremonial cowl that marked her as a Witch of the highest authority forever pulled over her head. Even when tutoring and tending to Roxy (as Rose had employed her to, in the hopes her daughter would take after her magical talent), the troll woman had never uncovered her hair or her ears. It was unsurprising; she was a devout practitioner of the grimdark magics, and an older, more conservative woman of spells than the liberal Rose. Rose never wore her cowl unless the old Alternian woman was there to scold her about it.

 

“I still remember your... Rose, when she was young. Terribly bright seer. Highly recommended. I knew I had to have her in my court. I didn't even care that she was pregnant, and so young; I just wanted her before anyone else could snatch her.”

 

Dirk is sitting at a small, glass table with Snowman in the garden. He doesn't remember coming here. She is wearing a wide-brimmed, black hat, almost like a cartoon witch, but without the pointed cap. A bright orange butterfly descends from one blossom-covered branch onto the brim. He feels as if he's dreaming.

 

“Do you remember Dave?” he asks her.

 

Snowman pauses, thinks. “Not terribly well. Rose was the only one of your family I ever associated with; I don't think I'd ever really got a look at you before you came here. Dave, hmmm. Her brother, correct?”

 

“My father,” Dirk says.

 

Snowman ponders this. “...I could have sworn...”

 

“Do you remember him in the least bit?” He's feeling homesick lately. How strange. For ages, all he's really wanted is to be away. The desire usually isn't much more specific than that.

 

She hums, thinking. She doesn't want to disappoint him, but... “Well, I didn't really associate with all of the knights. I barely associated with my own court. Rose is the special one I tend to remember. So elegant. Poised and professional, leading my advisors as she did, while raising two children. I can't imagine how she managed with your father in the knighthood, constantly away. I certainly couldn't do it!” She laughs, takes a drink of whatever's set in front of her in the expensive looking cup. Dirk wishes he could remember how he got here.

 

“I've never regretted not having children,” Snowman sighs. “They all just grow up to kill you and take your throne. Besides, I think my husband was infertile. Charming man. Always very gruff and unresponsive with strangers, but he was meek in spirit and the bedroom. Wonderfully submissive, that man. Never tried to usurp my power. To this day, although I resent my father for much that he did, he certainly got my marriage right. Although if I'd had things my way, I would've never gotten married – I'd have had an endless supply of lovers. Well.” She smirks mid-sip. “That _is_ actually what I did after my husband died. Poor dear. Terrible health.”

 

She still doesn't know about his hallucinations. He wants to ask her how they got here, but he doesn't want to alarm her, or worse, make her think he's kidding. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, hoping to gather the memories back to him through meditation; then, overcome with pollen, he leans to the side to sneeze.

 

“Speaking of family, the last I heard, yours was doing well.” She watches him scratch his watering eyes without comment. “Have you thought of them at all recently?”

 

“That's a heavy question.”

 

“You lead a heavy life.”

 

He looks at her, sitting across from him in an impeccably matched outfit, her lapels ironed, her back straight, her flawless legs crossed one over the other, and he thinks, not for the first time, that he's jealous of her composure. He dresses in crumpled clothes, barely runs his fingers through his once obsessively attended hair, and seems to find holes and loose threads in his mind every day.

 

Of course, she's heavily in denial. She's told him time and time again that she'd rather tell herself she's happy than confront the fact that she isn't.

 

“It's funny,” Dirk says. “We lived in the same place for years and never even noticed each other.”

 

“I saw you once up close, I think,” Snowman says, thoughtful. “You were young. You clung to Rose like a little thorn.” She laughs, especially when he rolls his eyes at her terrible joke. “I'm sure we saw each other from afar an innumerable amount of times in the palace, though.”

 

“And we never spoke.”

 

“No. Almost certainly not.”

 

“It makes sense. Why would a queen ever speak to a child?”

 

She hums. “Why indeed? Some adults attract the attention of children with ease, perhaps unwillingly. I never did. I'm too severe-looking even for carapace children and trolls with severe guardians of their own to want to bother me.” She swirls her cup in circles, never once spilling. “You haven't drunk much.”

 

“I'm not thirsty.”

 

She sighs. “You could use the sugar and the caffeine. Drink up!”

 

He takes a sip. It's a strong, heady jasmine.

 

♥

 

Dirk dreams that Jake comes to save him on a big, white wolf. He slashes the Felt and the demon to ribbons with his sword. He holds out his hand to Dirk and says something unrealistically suave and cool, something... something like, “ _Did you miss me?_ ” The dream is so ridiculous that in other circumstances Dirk would have laughed at it. In other circumstances he would hate himself for indulging in such fantasies, even unconscious.

 

In these circumstances, Dirk doesn't laugh because the dreams, although fanciful, reflect his truest desires. He wants desperately to be rescued from his suffocating tower bedroom, his monotonous captivity, this daily emasculation, but he never once allows himself to think that he actually will be. The time for rescue has long passed. It passed the moment the demon told him it was his life or his family's. He doesn't even know for sure that Jake is still alive, let alone that he'd ever be able to find this place.

 

If Jake is alive somewhere, a part of Dirk wants Jake to lugubriously mourn him forever. Another part of him knows that Jake will quickly move on, find someone else. Dirk doesn't think this spitefully, doesn't think this makes the other young man a bad person; Jake's just always been tactless, easy to tempt, only precariously Dirk's.

 

Dirk has the dream once, during an afternoon nap. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but he'd slept so little lately, he couldn't help drifting off. It is a nice dream, by far the most pleasant of his dreams as of late, but he still can't trust himself to sleep. Given his track record, the next dream probably won't be quite so nice.

 

In this dream, where Jake came to rescue Dirk from the mansion, Snowman is curiously absent.

 

♦

 

“You miss your loved ones, don't you?” she'd asked him in the garden. “I can't remember what that's like, to be torn apart from people you love. Everyone I've loved has been dead for so long, I've just gotten used to never seeing them again.”

 

Her father died before she took the throne. As did her infant brother. She said her husband died several years into her reign. And then Damara...

 

“I feel like I'm the one who's dead,” Dirk said. “I'm the one they're never going to see again.”

 

“It's a reciprocal separation, Dirk. You aren't seeing them, either...”

 

He rubbed his hands over his face and leaned, eyes covered and facing downwards, over the table. “It doesn't matter who misses who. We were never all that close. The feeling will pass.”

 

She scoffed. “They've been searching for you tirelessly.” As in, it's been months already, and “the feeling,” despite what he claims, hasn't passed.

 

“They're searching for their leader,” Dirk said to the table. “When they're satisfied I'm dead, they'll focus instead on finding my heir.”

 

He listened to the sound of the leaves rustling. He listened to Snowman sip her drink – she didn't slurp, she was former royalty, after all. He stared into the darkness pressed into his eyelids by his palms until the world began to fall away.

 

Her voice brought him back. “What if I told you,” she asked, “that they have a leader, and yet still look for you?”

 

♠

 

The body hangs limp between the demon's jaws, alive, but unconscious. It is a young girl, her blond hair curling by her face – or is it pin straight? Are those age lines on her face? Is it a woman at all, or a man, body littered with the scars of combat?

 

The demon speaks without moving his teeth.

 

_Did we say a pound of their flesh spared. For every year you obey me. Or a pound of yours consumed. For every year I spare them?_

 

The demon stares down at him. _You haven't been very obedient, prince._

 

The moment the creature's jaw begins to move, he's stepping forward. _Wait! I'll do anything you say. Just please, don't hurt them. Take me!_

 

The person – people – falls limply from the demon's jaws, and keeps falling into the dark abyss, past where Dirk thought the ground might be, until they seem to disappear.

 

The demon reaches forward. _Consent,_ its voice rumbles. _Give me your word._

 

_Eat me,_ Dirk replies.

 

And the demon does. And Dirk is agonizingly alive for all of it, for every snapping, twisting bone and spurting artery, his heart thumping at full speed in his chest like it's trying to get blood to the limbs that been severed and cast aside.

 

The demon chuckles, amused. _Rare. Just like I like it._

 

♠

 

He comes to, unsure he's even alive, bent over, his hands open in askance to some anonymous god. A female voice is in his ear, soothing, and for a moment, he thinks it's Rose.

 

It isn't, of course. His blood pumps in his ears so loud he can barely hear Snowman speak. His eyes slide past her to take in his surroundings. He's not in his room, of course; the large mirror that was once mounted on his wall had eventually been removed, for its own sake, and spirited away somewhere it would be safe. He's not in the yellow bathroom or the hall of mirrors, either – he doesn't recognize this room, but from the way the more domestic members of the Felt are moving past him, picking up shards, he knows what happened. His open palms haven't been cut open again, although they are swathed with blood as though they have been... and that's when he notices Snowman isn't just whispering to him, but applying a bandage to a wound on his side just below his rib cage.

 

Dirk stares at the mirror shards, his sad state staring back at him a hundred times over. “...Did I do that?”

 

Snowman looks into his face with an expression he doesn't want to analyze. “Yes.”

 

“Again?”

 

“...Yes.”

 

“...I don't remember.”

 

The floodgate opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what Snowman was hiding in her closet, it was............ a red herring.  
> Also, this chapter hinted at a few threads that won't be resolved until this fic's sequel...s


	11. Diamonds Crossed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really stressed out about posting this chapter. It contains a rape scene. The act of penetration is not detailed, but the character's mental stress is, and there is dialogue. This scene is far more detailed than any other assault scene in this fic. There are references to humiliation. Proceed with caution. I hope it isn't too melodramatic to evoke pathos and I hope it doesn't come across as unnecessary of me to have written.

Meenah's sure that a human would say that, were she a man, or were he attracted to women, they'd “be in love.” But then, Meenah thinks, humans are always missing the point, when it comes to love.

 

She watches the way they grip each others' hands and gaze into one another's eyes, and she wonders. Is it that only trolls have pale feelings, or is it merely that others fail to put the proper name to them?

 

With a huff, she turns on her heel and leaves the unsuspecting pair. She's never been the voyeuristic type.

 

♦

 

He's in the tub, naked, of course, his back to her. She sits on the floor nearby, courteously looking up at the ceiling, resisting the urge to ogle the claw marks on his back, compare them with what she thinks her own must look like.

 

She's there with him because he trusts her, even stripped down to the utmost vulnerability. She listens to the slosh of the water as he washes here, washes there. He's isn't moving very quickly, or much at all. He pauses now and again to think, to talk, to evoke her company from the silence, or to bask in it, her mere physical presence enough to make him feel less alone, more grounded. She's his anchor to reality.

 

It's eerie, how similar this situation is to ones she used to share with Damara. The girl hadn't grown up with other women and was all at once wary of Snowman and unsure why she should object to being naked in front of her. Eventually though, she trusted the older woman not to hurt her the way the men in her life did. She realized that the hands that reached for wounds and lighted on shoulders and in her hair, as a gesture of comfort, were just that. Comfort. And never once did the older woman's skin meet hers except with permission. Another pleasant difference.

 

Dirk's hair is dark with water, sticks to his head. His shoulders, never particularly broad, but at least muscular, have slimmed with malnourishment and maltreatment. He could, if he wanted to, pass for a girl. Snowman doesn't comment on it; she merely lifts her eyes back to the ceiling, scolding herself for peeking.

 

She knows that the last thing he wants to do is pass for female; she knows he thinks his life, his body, and his mind are all betraying him, changing beyond his control.

 

Dirk speaks. “One of my mother's favorite stories was about a man who went insane gracefully, cleverly. It was an old human story. She read it to me and Roxy when we were young, all the time. It seems irresponsible, reading such violent, sexual stuff to kids, but. We grew up in Derse. We knew violence, we knew death. Stories written _for_ children are morbid. Don't go into the woods, you know. Don't follow strange wolves. If someone gets eaten, your last hope is to cut their attacker open, search their entrails and hope the victim is still alive. Those are the stories we tell kids.

 

“The man, the protagonist of the story, became obsessed with avenging his father's murder. Yet even as he became utterly consumed with his goals, to the point that his very psyche seemed ready to burst, he still managed to achieve victory by the end of the story. He was happy, even to die, even to face the destruction of his soul, because he had fulfilled his duties to his father. That appealed to me so much as a kid. It was very much the ideology my father lived by. And the way the man triumphed, even as mental illness threatened to tear him down...

 

“Well. There was another character, who I suppose was his foil in that respect. A woman. He'd cast her aside for the sake of his revenge, humiliating and disgracing her. She went crazy, too, but not like he did, not gracefully. The man left her, robbed her of virtue and treated her like nothing and she. She snapped.” His shoulders dip. “I used to think, what a weak person. I used to think her pathetic, worthy of hatred even, but.” His voice trembles. “Now, despite everything.... I've _become_ her. I have completely and utterly unraveled. Even now I'm a babbling mess, I'm comic relief. And then I'll die and leave an attractive corpse behind.”

 

She hears a splash, and sees he's sunk into the water, his head just barely above the water.

 

“Sometimes I feel like nothing's real. Sometimes I feel like I don't even exist.”

 

He has said that before, or something similar. She remembers he said that he felt as if he were dead. “You seem perfectly real to me.”

 

He is silent. She wonders if she's done wrong, replying, but then,

 

“Maybe that's all we ever need, to exist. To be real to at least one person. So long as the me in your mind exists, I'm real in some form.”

 

“What are you talking about? You exist regardless of whether others acknowledge you or not.”

 

Again, silence. She thinks the water must be getting cold.

 

“Maybe,” he murmurs.

 

They fall into silence again. Then, “I'm sorry, Dirk.”

 

“What for?”

 

“I'm sorry that you see things, I'm sorry that you hear things.” I'm sorry that you've lost your mind. “I should've known things weren't all right. I thought you were doing it all on purpose.” He had told her, once, after an episode, that he lost himself. She assumed he meant to anger. She should've realized... “Maybe if I'd stopped being so obtuse, I would've realized sooner, and there'd be something I could've done...”

 

“I've been sick since long before I came here. This house only set off a bomb that was already ticking in the back of my head. There's nothing you could've done to prevent the inevitable flame reaching the end of its wick.”

 

“I know that. I do, I just. It's not as if I haven't seen this happen before. Maybe I could've comforted you. Maybe it wouldn't have gotten so bad.”

 

She expects him to tell her she can't fix everything, no matter how hard she tries. Instead he asks, “What do you mean, you've seen this before?”

 

She pauses, thinking for one irrational moment that he'll be angry with her. But why? He just told her, she's powerless to prevent anything, powerless to help...

 

“Damara,” she says, finally. “I told you she eventually broke all of the clocks in the house.” She hears the water slosh. She doesn't look to see if he's facing her. “I asked her once, why she kept doing it, and she said. She said they were talking to her.”

 

Rasping voices, she'd said. Rasping voices asking her why she couldn't kill herself, rasping voices laughing, comparing her to a fish in a bowl. _Why a fish in a bowl?_ Snowman had wondered, and Damara had stared at her, as if it were obvious. Snowman supposed it was because, from an infant, she had been trapped in a constricting environment. She would live and die by the same hands. Her life, in the end, meant very little to her master. He replaced her without a second thought.

 

It's a metaphor she doesn't entirely understand, and so she is both plagued by it and dismissive of it, thinking that it is the sort of nonsensical thing only a scattered, diseased mind could come up with.

 

She doesn't say any of this to Dirk, naturally. “Diseased” is not a terribly nice word to use in reference to mental illness.

 

“Does he torture all of us the same?”

 

Snowman stares at the butter yellow ceiling until every crack and overly-large glob of paint blurs together. “I'm not sure. We don't tend to compare notes.”

 

“Does he rape you?”

 

She tries to reply, but she's choking on the word.

 

“I'm sorry. That was too forward.”

 

“I.” She swallows around the lump in her throat. “I know he assaulted Damara. From the time she was very young.”

 

He doesn't reply. He's waiting for something.

 

Her voice cracks embarrassingly. “I-I've never talked to Meenah about it, so I don't know if. She.”

 

Dirk sighs. “I'm sorry. It's an invasive question. I shouldn't have asked it at all.”

 

She purses her lips. She doesn't know why she's getting so upset. She just hopes he doesn't ask her if she's okay, because she's not sure she can reply without her voice trembling.

 

“I'm going to dry off and get dressed. Can you stand outside?”

 

She scrambles off the floor and exits the room without a word. Hopefully she'll be able to compose herself before he's finished.

 

♣

 

They're laying on his bed, as usual, staring up at the canopy. Their fingers are intertwined idly, unconsciously, smoothing and grasping each other every once in a while to make sure the other's are still there. Dirk's hair is still a bit damp, although it curls as it dries, slowly. Snowman's glad their heads aren't too close, that she can't feel the wetness seeping into her pillow.

 

“I'm tired of talking about myself,” Dirk says, eventually.

 

“What a surprise! Most men never tire of talking about themselves.”

 

He laughs, softly. Then, “I want to know more about you.”

 

She shifts uncomfortably, thinking of his question in the bathroom. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Whatever you want to tell me. Your favorite things. What your childhood was like. Anything you think is important.”

 

She's relieved. “What a broad prompt. How am I ever supposed to respond?”

 

“I'm sorry, that is really broad.”

 

“I'll think of something. Give me a moment.”

 

He's obediently silent. He looks at her face while she thinks; she can feel his eyes on her, even as she doesn't meet them, even as she stares into space and ponders what she's comfortable sharing. She feels as though every time they're together, he tells her something painfully intimate – his admission today certainly comes to mind in this respect. She knows she shouldn't be keeping score, that she is not obligated to tell him something intimate for the sake of being “fair.” But she does think, maybe, that if she wanted to tell him something heavy, she'd be allowed to. That they're close enough by now.

 

She starts with family, because it's a subject Dirk seems to find important. “Well. I've told you about my husband.”

 

“A little.”

 

“There's not much to tell, though. We weren't in love, though I did like him quite a bit. And I've mentioned my father...”

 

“What about your mom?”

 

She pauses. “We were close, when she was alive. I'm nothing like her, that's something she made sure of.” She pictures her now, a lanky, meek person with sad eyes, constantly telling her, _Don't let anyone take advantage of you. If anyone ever tells you you're a proper lady, do the exact opposite of what you've been doing to make them think that way. Tell the men in your life off whenever they cross the line. Especially your father._ “I think that the only way I resemble her is in height. But she gave me my hot-blooded arrogance – or is it confidence? – and the rest of my domineering personality, so I have much to thank her for. I was devastated when she passed away.”

 

“I'm sorry. How old were you when she died?”

 

“Sixteen. My father wanted a male heir and after my mother had me, she just had miscarriage after miscarriage, and so he had her killed so he could marry his tramp mistress and get the legitimate son that he wanted.”

 

She feels his face move in shock. “...I forgot about that. I'm sorry.”

 

The comment catches her off guard, until she remembers that her life is recorded in history books. And then she sighs. “It's fine. At this point she's been dead longer than she was in my life.”

 

“That doesn't make it less sad.”

 

“No, I suppose it doesn't. When sadness for a loss is a part of you for that long, though, it becomes a part of you, an ache in the background that you manage to forget from time to time.”

 

“I wouldn't know,” Dirk admits.

 

“Oh, really?” she replies.

 

She squeezes his hand after a long pause. “What else did you learn about me in school?”

 

He hesitates to reply, and when he does, he is careful with his words. “I can't tell you much about what schools in Derse were saying. My primary education when I was young came either from home or from private schools in Prospit, which, as I've mentioned, is where my parents sent me to live when the dregs of the Alternian Empire waged war for your throne.”

 

She laughs at that – “dregs of the Alternian Empire.” He's a natural story-teller, whether he realizes it or not. “Well, what did your mother have to say about me? What did _Prospit_ have to say about me?”

 

“...My mother kept to the bare facts.”

 

“She was never one for unnecessary conflict. And Prospit?”

 

“None of it was terribly nice...”

 

“Oh, come on! I know what I've done. What did they say about my ascension to the throne, hmm? I'll tell you if they got it right.”

 

“They said you killed your father.”

 

She hums. “Yes. He was taking quite a while to die naturally, so I thought I'd speed things up.”

 

His voice holds a hint of surprise. “I always thought that was a rumor.”

 

“Oh, no, no, no. I was ambitious at nineteen. I was tired of his maltreatment of me and my country and I wanted the throne as soon as possible, so I had a hit carried out. He died a peaceful death, in his sleep. He's lucky I was so benevolent.”

 

“But he wasn't the only thing in the way of the throne.”

 

The minute the words leave his mouth, they are swallowed by the silence of the room. She thinks that he didn't mean to say it. After a while, letting him stew in embarrassment, she sighs, loudly, exasperatedly.

 

“You must tell me what Prospit said, or I won't be able to tell you the true version. Don't you want to learn more about me?”

 

He won't respond. “Dirk – who else was in the way of my throne?”

 

“...Your infant brother.”

 

“And I suppose you thought that was a rumor, too?”

 

He doesn't respond. Snowman stares at the ceiling contemplatively. “You know, when I was a girl, no one expected me to do anything. They wanted me to sit in my room all day and not move, except when it would be pretty and entertaining. I was an accessory. An elegant accessory to be handed over to a nobleman in exchange for his family's continuing devotion to Dersite royalty.” She pauses. “I felt a lot like you do now, I suppose. Like I was meant for bigger things than sitting around in the dark.”

 

She sighs. “He was four, you know. There I was, nineteen years old with the education and combative training that would make a Prospitian duke weep with envy. And he was four, bratty and incoherent. He could hardly dress without help. Granted, they, my dead father's advisors, wanted some... bishop of the order of Bilious Slick to rule in my brother's place as regent, since the little brat's mother died in childbirth. But nevertheless they chose a four-year-old. Over me.”

 

His eyes bore into her face. “... _Did_ you kill your brother?”

 

She doesn't meet his eyes. “Did you know,” she murmurs, “that he loved frogs? He had several, and could only play with them with supervision. So.” She swallows. “I gave him some little yellow ones. Big, black eyes, cute little things. Imported – very expensive. But worth it, in the end. He was so eager to reach into their cage and touch them. And you know children – they're always putting their hands in their mouths, on their eyes, by their pores...”

 

They are quiet for a long time. Eventually, there is wet hair tickling her face, weight on her pillow, and she's curling into his awkward invitation for an embrace. She feels her clothes becoming rumpled, her skirt riding up, and she doesn't care. She doesn’t care what she looks like. She doesn't care that she's being comforted like some damn child. She's happy to have a companion. Scratch doesn't know anything – caring for people isn't a weakness, it's salvation. She is...

 

For whatever reason, her eyes slide open. She gazes over Dirk's shoulder and feels fear shoot through her veins like a bullet at what she sees looming in the doorway. She's not sure what words manage to force their way out of her mouth, or if they're words at all – all she knows is that they succeed in catching Dirk's attention, and he pulls away to see the demon, standing there in the doorway, watching them.

 

“Well, well, well,” is all the demon says for a long time. Dirk's fingers are clenched so hard around Snowman's upper arms that she's convinced he has turned to stone.

 

The demon lurches forward, slowly approaching the pair in the bed. “It seems you two have gotten. Quite comfortable with each other.” He stops at the end of the bed, looming over them. He is tall. He is so tall. “And here I thought. That my women would be safe. I thought you had no interest in them. Dirk.”

 

Snowman finds her voice. “We're not sleeping together.”

 

A rumble issues forth from the demon's throat. It is a sound of contempt, of disbelief. “No, really,” Snowman presses. “This is purely asexual.”

 

“It is,” Dirk finally agrees, voice weak. “I would never-”

 

The demon leans forward and they shut up. His gaze seems to penetrate them. He never blinks, cannot blink with his face made of immovable emerald bone. They stare back at him as if they cannot blink, either. They tense every time he moves, every time he breathes.

 

They should let go of each other. They should pull apart and apologize profusely. Snowman should reach down and adjust her skirt in the very least.

 

Instead, she grips Dirk just as tightly back.

 

The demon leans back, but she does not let herself feel relief. He sits on his haunches, his eyes never leaving them. Looming at the foot of the bed, he truly looks like the sort of monster one fears as a small child. Except, of course, that he is real. “I'm fine with it,” the monster says. “So long as he hasn't sullied you.”

 

Dirk speaks up again. “We haven't had se-”

 

“Good.” The monster shifts. After a few moments of watching them, he says, “Carry on with what you were doing. Before I came in.”

 

Snowman swallows. “W-we were just talking.” They don't look like they were talking.

 

Air rushes from the demon's lungs. He is exasperated. “How boring. Do something interesting.”

 

Her stomach flips. “Like what-?”

 

“Kiss.”

 

She feels Dirk's hands spasm. They shake so forcibly, so beyond his control, that he relinquishes his grip on her upper arms entirely. She looks at his face, though, and it is still. His entire body is still, except for his hands.

 

His eyes look empty. Not dead, but. Away.

 

The demon stares. “Go on,” he says. Dirk is still just laying there beside her, staring at the demon. Snowman wonders if he understands the gravity of the situation. A growl issues forth from the demon's throat. “If you don't...”

 

Before he can finish his sentence, Snowman grabs Dirk's face and presses her lips, hard, to his. He struggles for a moment or two before kissing back, awkwardly, uncomfortably. She feels sick. She feels weak. She will hate herself for this forever.

 

“More,” the demon says, and she coaxes his mouth open.

 

“It's better this way,” she whispers between kisses, her eyes squeezed shut. “The only other option is death or torture, it's better this way.” Dirk doesn't comment, but he doesn't pull away, either.

 

Their hands, the demon says. They mustn’t forget their hands. After a few moments of awkward hands on hips, of impenetrable glares and low growls, Snowman takes one of Dirk's hands and places it on her chest. It spasms there, uncomfortable, and then, to her surprise, it moves with purpose. She realizes he's gently touching her wound from ages ago, where there is now a rather ugly, gray scar. Even with her clothes in the way, she's sensitive there. She makes a small sound.

 

The demon makes a throaty sound of his own. “That's better.”

 

At his urging, they begin to make small, insincere sounds. Gasps between kisses, a moan feigned when touched here or there – it's all obscenely manufactured. But it seems to be keeping the monster amused. Snowman is just thinking, from the demon's breathing patterns, from the way the shaking in Dirk's hands has calmed, that they might make it out of here okay. Slightly scarred, embarrassed about looking at each other, but okay.

 

And then there is another, far heavier weight pressing on he bed. “Make room,” the demon says. Their chests pressed close together, she swears she feels Dirk's heartbeat accelerate profusely.

 

Or maybe that's just her own heart.

 

Their clothes end up crumpled on the floor but intact, having chosen to undress themselves, rather than the far less safe alternative. For the first time, they see each other's scars up close. For a moment, posed as they are, Dirk's hands on either side of her head, her back sinking into his comforter, they shut the demon out and really look at each other. There isn't an ounce of sexuality to their curiosity, just – just curiosity. Their scars don't mirror each other, they aren't in exactly the same places, and yet they feel analogous. They are bound by these markings.

 

And then it begins.

 

“Don't worry. It'll be okay,” Snowman whispers. She wants to shut her eyes against the horribleness of the situation, through the pained faces Dirk is making, but she can't bring herself to.

 

Through the suffocating heat, the sweat, the whimpers and heaving gasps and growling demonic breaths, she comforts Dirk. Her whispers reach a peak, become less whispers and more raspy, high-pitched gasps of words tearing their way out of her mouth when all she wants to do is tear away with a scream of indignation. What sustains her through all of it, she thinks, is this urge to comfort.

 

“It's okay. It's okay. Breathe easy. Don't cry. Oh, don't cry.”

 

The demon penetrates both of them, one at a time, while forcing them to look at each other like this. She thinks it's a mercy that he doesn't ask Dirk to penetrate her until she realizes that, bizarrely enough, the demon would likely find that to be an act of faithlessness on their part. So long as Dirk doesn't act on his sex, he isn't a threat to English. So long as he is reduced to a feminine passivity, he isn't dangerous to English's ability to possess them.

 

He orders them to kiss one last time. The tone of his voice makes it sound like an afterthought. He isn't asking them to do it to get him off; rather, he's doing it because he has remembered that he's torturing them. Punishing them, for banding together.

 

She said once that he thought their entire beings should revolve around him, and no one else. Dirk grips the sheets bunched on either side of her throat and lets out a dry, wretched sob.

 

The demon looks at them when he has finished. Snowman swears that, even with his lack of expression, he seems gleeful with what he's done. When he's had his fill of Dirk's trembling back, or Snowman's distant gaze, he slithers out of the room. Turning her head to watch him go, she realizes, idly, that the door was open the whole time. He doesn't even have the courtesy to shut it behind him.

 

Dirk's arms almost give out, but he stops himself from falling on top of her, manages to crawl to the side of her and collapse, without once brushing his skin to hers. She turns to see him curling into the fetal position, back curled, vertebrae stark in his back like a lizard's spines. Snowman gets up on her elbows and leans over to get a good look at his face. It is blank.

 

She touches a gentle hand to his shoulder. He flinches so hard that she nearly pulls it away, but then his hands comes up and rests over hers, keeping it there. She smiles bitterly. “Dirk... I'm so sorry. I know this was hard for you...”

 

He turns his face as much as he can towards her. “You were there the whole time.”

 

She thinks it's an accusation. “I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-”

 

She startles, her hands falling away when he pulls himself up and into a sitting position. He looks at her, face utterly bereft of malice. “Are you okay?” he asks.

 

She stares at him, dumbfounded. “I...”

 

“You were there the whole time,” he repeats. “Suffering with me.”

 

She swallows. “I wouldn't. Say that, I. I kissed you without your permission, I touched-”

 

“I did the same things back. None of that is your fault, Snow, it was obey or die there for a while.” His hands slides towards hers. “So, I'm asking. Are you okay?”

 

Her fingers back away from his, gripping a random bunch of his sheets. “Yes.”

 

“You're lying.”

 

“I'm _not._ ” Her voice cracks. “You're the one who's not okay!”

 

It's childish, it sounds childish. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I'm not okay. But neither are you.”

 

His face is red and puffy, juxtaposed by his now exhausted expression. He reaches for her hands again and manages to catch them. “Snow-”

 

She snatches her hands away. “I can deal with this!”

 

He frowns. “Snow-”

 

“I'm not _weak!”_ Her voice is wrecked with emotion.

 

“I'm not saying that! Snow – I have cried on your shoulder an innumerable amount of times since I got here. You said it was a part of the pattern for those of us trapped here to tend to each _other.”_ He holds out his hand to her. “Let _me_ mother _you_.”

 

She laughs too loudly. “You're a teenaged boy!” Her eyes are betraying her; she feels wetness. She's leaking, she's falling apart.

 

“And you're a grown woman,” Dirk replies with a haphazard shrug. “It doesn't change the fact that we _both_ just went through that.”

 

Her fingers slip into his, and then she's... No, they're both falling forward, into each other's arms. It's strange, how after being violated, she wants so desperately to be touched. They cry because they have a reason to cry.

 

“We look like fools,” she gasps into his shoulder. They're naked. They're messy. They're adults, and they're crying.

 

“No, we don't,” he promises. “We don't, we really don't, Snow. We have every right to break down right now.” He's shaking again, except his entire body is trembling. “We have every right to do this.”

 

She clutches his sides and buries her face into his neck. It isn't weak to need other people. She knew it wasn't. She's always known that it wasn't.

 

She pulls her face away from his skin. “You,” she says, voice heavy with tears, “I really do feel very close to you. You're like my sister,” she chuckles. “And I don't mean that to emasculate you. I mean I feel very close to you, in a way that's different from friendship. I love you. I really love you. Please, don't be mad.”

 

“I'm not mad.” It isn't like all the times she's called him princess and woman to put him down. She's saying it because she identifies with him. Because they are equals. And for once, it doesn't hurt, to be called something female. It doesn't hurt to be called sister.

 

“I love you, too,” he whispers. “And that's why I don't want to leave you behind.” Gripping her shoulders, he pulls her away so he can look her in the face. “I have a theory. It's just a theory, but if I'm right... I might be able to get us out of here.”

 

Her eyes widen. “Dirk, _no-_ ”

 

“I don't want what just happened to ever happen again,” he says. “I don't want to suffer like that again. I don't want _you_ to suffer like that again.” She expects him to shake her, but his hands smooth down her arms instead, gentle. “Snow.” She bites her lip at the nickname. “I want to leave this place. And I want to take you with me.”

 

She looks into his face for a long time, searching. He seems utterly sane. “Will this theory get you killed, if you get it wrong?”

 

“Does it matter?” he whispers back. “Does it really matter anymore?”

 

Her lips tremble. She's thinking of two powerful women battling, of a young girl with curled, orange horns falling to the ground, limp. “I don't want to live without you. Not again. I can't lose my best friend again.”

 

His hands slip down to hers and squeeze, comfortingly. Hers are limp in his grip. “Snow, please. Please, stand behind me on this.” He gazes at her. “I swear, whatever happens to me, I'll fight. I'll fight so we can stay together, no matter the cost. Please, Snow. Say you'll come with me if it works. _Please._ ”

 

After a pregnant silence, her hands grip his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The golden poison dart frog has enough poison to kill about ten to twenty men. 
> 
> Fish-bowling is a term I saw in a Japanese story a million years ago, that I can no longer find; the term referred to when an adult, usually a man, raised a child, usually a little girl, to fall in love with him, and then married her when she became a legal, consenting age. I think it was a reference to a famous movie or book or story of some sort, but for the life of me, I haven't been able to find the term used anywhere else. So maybe I'm crazy. Idk. Interpret the fish-in-a-bowl metaphor however you like.
> 
> The next chapter is the last. I hope you're all prepared for some serious shit to go down!!!!


	12. Free

They had forgotten all about Meenah.

 

They enter the kitchen and fall silent upon seeing her, the words, _ring,_ dying on their lips.

 

She's glaring at them. They wonder if she was listening though the door. They wonder if maybe they aren't as subtle as they think they are. They thought that they had nothing to fear about speaking in these halls – the demon is gone, for a while. He won't hear them. But they have forgotten about Meenah.

 

Meenah's face flushes dark with fuchsia. And then, strangely, she squeezes her eyes shut and counts to ten. By the time she opens them, she's still angry, but not in a way that immobilizes her.

 

“I heard you two talking,” she says, “and I want in.”

 

Dirk frowns. “I don't know what you're-”

 

“Don't!” Meenah throws the spoon in her hand down on the counter and tears off her apron in one fell swoop. “I want in! I've been waiting for ages to get away from this motherfucker, and I'm not going to let you two exclude me again!”

 

She's breathing heavily. Snowman and Dirk look warily at her and then at each other. Each one seems to be waiting for the other to make a decision, to assess the situation.

 

Floored by their silence, Meenah grinds her teeth. “I know it. I know you two have been planning some kind of escape. I don't know what it is, but I want to be a part of it! If it works, I deserve to get away, too!”

 

She stomps her foot. The pair in the doorway don't laugh at the childish gesture, nor do they criticize it. No one says anything for a while. The anticipation only makes Meenah frustrated.

 

“...How did you find out?” Dirk asks, frowning.

 

“You two keep whispering. You two never whisper – you want everybody in the mansion to know you're just the _best_ of friends. So I knew something was up!”

 

Despite the way she glares at them, they look relieved by this. Still, though, they don't say anything for a while, instead trading wary glances in which they seem to be debating her right to join their schemes.

 

Dirk finally speaks. “Well. If we all get out alive, I'll get the chance to kill you myself. So, yeah. We'll let you in.”

 

Snowman gives a wicked grin. “Oh, I don't know, Dirk. I don't think it'll be quite that easy. You'll have to watch yourself with this one.”

 

“I never said it'd be an easy kill.” He smiles at Meenah. It's supposed to be smug, she thinks, but it doesn't look that way. It looks... relieved.

 

She suppresses the urge to smile back. “Yeah. That's right, you'll let me in!” Satisfied (relieved) at this turn of events, she strides towards them. She joins them where they stand, the third point on a suicide-mission triangle. “So what crazy, stupid plan do you even have? Are you just going to stab the demon again? Am I wasting my time here?”

 

Dirk shakes his head. “No. I think I know how to break his hold over us. And if I'm right, if I can break that magic, we should be able to leave him, to get as far away as we need before he returns.”

 

“We were thinking of going to the capital in Prospit. If it works,” Snowman adds with a little frown. It's terrible, when reality encroaches on the most pleasant of maybes.

 

“If it works, it'll be a lifetime on the run for us,” Dirk clarifies. “He can just as easily chase us down and trap us again, or kill us. I'm used to living that way, but. Are you prepared for that?”

 

Meenah rolls her eyes. “As far as my kingdom knows, I'm still queen. I'll send armies after that fucker if he even so much as thinks about taking me off my throne!” Her entire posture seems to have swelled with pride at that remark. Reminded of who she is, gold-covered hands planted on her hips, she asks, “So, what's your solution? How the hell are we going to get away with these rings?” She pauses, then, angrily, “Wait – do you know magic?! Is there some big spell you've been holding out on us?!”

 

“Not at all,” Dirk replies. “It's much simpler, and much messier, than that.”

 

♠

 

None of them can believe that they didn't think of it sooner. Or perhaps they told themselves they didn't because of the consequences testing it held. In the grand scheme of things, it is little to lose. On a smaller scale, though...

 

“It's just one finger,” Meenah grumbles. Whether she's reassuring Dirk or herself he is unsure. “Isn't even an important one.”

 

“If this fails,” Dirk says, “it won't be easy to hide. That's why I'm going to be the guinea pig. If it works on me, we'll do it to you two. If it doesn't, well. I guess I just won't have a ring finger anymore.”

 

Snowman frowns. “But Dirk, you draw for him. He's always looking at your hands...”

 

“Yeah, and I self-mutilate on a regular basis. It'll be less suspicious if I'm missing a finger than if one of you tries to say you lost it on a job or in battle or some nonsense.”

 

Meenah and Snowman look at each other. Sadly, he has a point. He even has the “privilege” of being able to blame the mutilation on mental stress. While both women have faced their fair share of hardship under English's demand, neither has ever lost hold of her sanity.

 

He laughs, but the tone is off. “Of course, if either of you would like to take my place...”

 

“No,” Snowman replies automatically. Meenah scowls. “No way! Come on, quit being such a pussy and let's get it over with!”

 

The three are standing in the kitchen around the fold-out table. The three chose the room because it has privacy, because it is not too far a walk from the main hall, and because, most obviously, it is the room with the butchering knives, and a sink for cleaning out the wound. Snowman, ever careful, insisted on bringing balms and bandages.

 

“So who's cutting it off?” Meenah asks the room.

 

There is a pause. Then, “I thought I was just going to do it myself.”

 

“Do you think you can go through with it?” Snowman asks. “Because.... If you really need me to...”

 

Meenah gags. “Oh, _stop_ already! He's not a fucking baby!”

 

Dirk hesitates. “I'm pretty sure I can do it. I mean, it'll hurt, and it'll feel especially weird because it's a finger I'm getting rid of, but... it's vital to our well-being that I do this. So I think I can do this.”

 

He flexes his fingers against the table – a last hurrah, he thinks, their last time being entirely together – and then abruptly turns around to grab a knife from the rack. He looks at each blade carefully, pretending to be thoughtful when in all actuality he knew which knife would be perfect for the job the second he looked at them. Still, he takes his time, examines a few, before settling on one wooden handle and tugging it from the rack like a sword from stone.

 

When he turns around, Meenah and Snowman's eyes are on him, and they're huge. A pulse of nervousness goes through him, seeing them like this, even as their expressions change to mask their emotions. He takes his place between them at the table. He puts his right hand on the table and spreads his fingers out. He lifts the knife. He inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth.

 

He pictures a pool of blood and exposed bone where his finger used to be and a wave of nausea rolls through him. His stomach seems to rise into the air, darkness crawls at the corner of his vision, and the knife clatters from his hand to the floor.

 

“What the fuck was that?” Meenah masks her nerves with mockery and anger. Dirk, his eyes squeezed shut, grumbles random curses. He rubs the bridge of his nose with his left hand, the other still splayed on the table, breathes, “I'm sorry. Shit. I'm sorry, that was dumb of me...”

 

He opens his eyes, planning to bend down and grab the knife, but Snowman has already retrieved it for him. She grips it by the wood closest to the blade, offering him the rest of the handle. “Of course,” she says, “the offer still stands. I can do this for you if you need me to.”

 

When Dirk doesn't deny her request right away, Meenah scoffs in disgust. “You're more of a pussy than I thought.”

 

Snowman, angry, whips her head to look at Meenah. “If you're so tough, then why don't you let us cut _your_ finger off?!”

 

“Hell no!”

 

“Coward!”

 

“I'm not losing a finger if it turns out not to work!” Meenah snaps. Her eyes dart between the knife and his hand.

 

“I can do it,” Dirk says, reaching for the knife. “I just lost myself for a second, but I can do this.”

 

“Fuck if you can!” Gray, bejeweled fingers snatch the knife from Snowman's hand. “You eat jack shit, so we'll be lucky if your skinny little ass doesn't pass the fuck out before you finish the job. I got this. I'll cut it off for you!”

 

“ _Meenah-!_ ”

 

“Okay,” Dirk says. Snowman turns to him in shock. He shrugs at her. “Removing a finger isn't necessarily one clean cut. I'll... I'll probably have to keep cutting to get it the whole way off. You saw me swoon just now – what if I do pass out next time?” Dirk flexes his fingers before flattening his hand on the table again, his fingers splayed. “I'm not saying I can't do this,” he says to Meenah. “But I trust you'll get this done faster. Snow?” He nods to his hand. “Make sure she doesn't cut any of my other fingers off.”

 

The carapace woman looks between the two for a moment. Then she gives a big, breathy sigh. “Okay.” She places her hands over Dirk's thumb, pointer, and middle fingers – half to keep them steady, half to protect them, so Meenah cannot maim them “accidentally.”

 

“You ready?” Dirk asks Snowman. She laughs. “I should ask _you_ that.”

 

Meenah looks at his finger, and, suddenly, “The ring's real close to the knuckle.” She looks at him. “It's going to be hard to make this a clean cut.”

 

He lets out a large breath. “I know. I know, just. Do your best.”

 

Meenah looks at him intently. “Ready?”He nods his consent. Without any fanfare, the troll woman lifts the knife and brings it down, hard, on Dirk's ring finger.

 

“ _FUCK!_ ” He feels the snap of bone, the tendons, the raw, exposed flesh. It hurts. It hurts worse than any injury he's ever had. And it's just a wound – she hasn't even cut close the the entire thing off yet. “Fuck. Meenah.” He breathes hard through his teeth, jaw clenched so hard he feels as if he might break his teeth. He snarls, “Finish the job. _Come the fuck on!_ ”

 

She lifts the knife, far too high, into the air. “Don't fucking snap at-!” Dirk cries out again. Meenah has stabbed his finger too quickly, too messily, and Snowman, too, yelps in pain. She moves to shove Meenah and the knife out of the way, and, in a big, bloody mess, the knife and the finger fall from the table.

 

“Fuck – the ring! Look for the ring!” Dirk snaps. Snowman squeezes her – thankfully, still very much intact, if a little injured – fingers to her chest. “But Dirk, your hand-!”

 

“That's not important,” he hisses. “Find the ring, see if it's still white! I saw on the demon's hand, he had a dark gray ring where Damara's once was...! If it's gray, if the ring is gray, it worked! The magic is broken, we can go home...!”

 

He's folding into himself from the pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he clutches his hand. While he talks, Meenah has squatted down to check under the table. “You fucking idiots, stop moving around, you're going to kick it somewhere...”

 

Snowman is content to leave Meenah to it, and despite Dirk's protests, and shoves him towards the sink. “Snowman, no, I – Meenah! Meenah, the finger – it's over there!”

 

Just as Meenah's about to turn her head towards where he is spastically pointing, the kitchen doors come crashing open. A gigantic form shoves it way inside, and large, green jaws part, letting forth an awful roar. “ _WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?_ ”

 

All three captives freeze. The demon is trembling with anger. His eyes and coat are flashing with colors like the very flames of hell, and he spreads out his powerful arms to grab at them.

 

They struggle against him, his claws digging into their flesh, but he succeeds in wrenching them from the kitchen and tossing them out into the hallway. Quite a few of the Felt are waiting for them with rifles, and they poke and prod the three with the butts of their firearms all the way down the hall.

 

To their surprise, the demon is taking them to the main hall, by the double doors. For one crazy moment, Dirk thinks he's letting them go.

 

The Felt stop them in the hall at the demon's command, their guns at their backs. It seems stupid, futile, Dirk thinks. They're immortal, aren't they? What's a bullet going to do except maim them? He's reached a nirvana of pain. The demon rises up before them, getting close enough that he can deafen them with his roars.

 

“Tell me now,” he snarls in their faces, “why I shouldn't march you all outside. Kill every, single one of you. _And then bury you where you fall?!_ ” He gets in Dirk's face. “I thought we had a connection. I thought we were men. How could you _betray me like this?!”_ His claw lifts into the air. As the demon screams abuses at him, Dirk braces himself to be hit, for his face to be forever mutilated... if he even lives all that long after this. He concentrates on the feeling of blood still dripping down his hand, naked meat and bone crammed up against the palm of his hand...

 

Snowman bravely speaks up. “I don't understand why you're so angry, sir.”

 

The demon lowers his claws from Dirk's face and bares his massive fangs at her. “ _Do not lie!_ ”

 

“I'm not.” Dirk is in utter awe of her calm. “I don't see why you'd be so angry about Dirk hurting himself. He was having another episode, you see, like with the mirrors, except this time he got ahold of a knife-”

 

“I _know_ what you all have been plotting!” the demon snarls, cutting her off. “I have been informed that you are making plans. To escape the mansion. I will not allow it! I will not allow such _insolence-_ ”

 

“Oh, but that's not it at all!” Snowman takes a step towards him. The Felt with his gun to her back starts to follow, but she turns and glares at him in a way that deeply confuses him. She's his boss. He's used to obeying her, but English overrides her authority. And yet she always knows best. She can hold her own against anything. He seems to relent that she can hold her own even in confronting English, especially when no one hollers at him for lowering his firearm from her back.

 

Snowman approaches the demon. She soothingly touches him on one heavily veined hand. “Now, calm down, dear, we'll talk this out. There's no use having a temper tantrum over hearsay-”

 

“BE QUIET!” his voice booms. She looks ready to speak again, despite the fear, despite the danger, but he cuts her off. “Do not tell me how I feel. You god damn _woman!_ ”

 

“Darling-”

 

“I AM NOT YOUR DARLING. YOU PLOTTING. LYING. WHORE!”

 

She's cut off when he grabs her by the waist and drags her forward. Her eyes widen as he lifts her up and screams in her face: “I AM FED UP WITH YOUR DISOBEDIENCE! I AM FED UP WITH YOUR INABILITY TO KEEP THE BOY IN PLACE! YOU HAVE FAILED ME AT EVERY TURN. AND NOW. YOUR SERVICES,” he roars, raking a claw slowly down her chest, “ARE NO LONGER NEEDED HERE!”

 

In a startling act of violence reminiscent of the kinds Dirk sees in his dreams, the monster's claw plunges into Snowman's chest and pulls out her heart. Blood paints his arm and her chest alike from the spray and her head immediately lolls to the side, a marionette whose string had been cut, her face frozen in a state of shock and pain. The demon tugs the heart loose from its arteries and blood sprays, and then stops dead. Dirk can swear that the mass of muscle in the demon's hand is still pulsing with her life force, pumping as it did, pumping as it did pumping blood down his arm her blood her blood all over out of her body she is dead dead he has failed her he told her they would be together that he'd fight for her-

 

A man's strangled cry sounds from behind him, the pressure digging into his back clattering to the ground from the holder's shock. “Boss,” the Felt gasps, “you just killed Snowman!”

 

The demon turns to the group of five. The three Felt, men Dirk doesn't know personally, are all in varying stages of shock, their mouths and eyes dumbly wide. Even Meenah looks haggard, caught between the urge to vomit and to scream. Snowman's body is still limp in the demon's clutches, a ragdoll, an empty vessel, where moments before there was a person.

 

“Yes.” The demon pops the bloody organ into his mouth and seems to grin around it, Snowman's blood in his teeth. “ _I did._ ”

 

Dirk wants to fight for her. But Meenah is shouting at him, telling him to _go_ , and he does. He runs.

 

The demon is shouting for the Felt to pursue him but they're slow to it. They're shocked, too. They're shocked because Snowman is dead. Snowman won't be coming with him. Snowman can't have a second chance at life, she can't hide with him in Prospit's capital, she can't avenge Damara because she's already dead like Damara.

 

But Dirk isn't dead, and so he runs. He is vaguely aware of his heart pounding in his chest. He is vaguely aware of the demon thundering behind him. He is vaguely aware of blood pouring, harder, from his hand, of something sharp and painful tearing into his back coinciding with a burst of noise. He is vaguely aware of all of these things as he runs through the double doors into cool air and black skies.

 

Dirk is no stranger to dark skies. Before it became Derse, before it became its own separate kingdom, it was the Skaian continent's industrial center. Belched from the regiments of factories, black smoke curled up into the sky and it settled there permanently, like outcast pilgrims taking comfort in what was cast away by others, like the black carapaces who would one day be forced to live there at the decree of the whites. Dirk finds nothing so comforting as the dark skies of his childhood, the ethereal smog blocking out the sun so that the kingdom's daytime seemed merely an extended twilight. How befitting, Dirk, that you should come to claim your freedom when the sun has set, casting the foreign sky into such a familiar and comforting darkness.

 

Out you go into the frigid night, young prince, black biting your skin in a way you haven't felt in ages, skin tender, tender from the bruises of your trials and the pinch of cold and the freedom, washing over your flesh and leaving it raw and red. Your mother's name crushes your lungs as you wade, seemingly in slow motion, finally, away from your prison. You are falling. You are free and you are falling into the embrace of the grass.

 

You take in the deepest of fresh breaths as the darkness swallows you whole.

 

♥

 

“And Horatio whispered, his lips pressed to young Hamlet's cold brow, 'Good night sweet prince: And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.'”

 

The sound of Dirk's bedroom door opening stole both his and Rose's attention. Dave entered, wrinkling his nose at the sight of the book in her hand. “Are you reading that ancient tome to him again? He's just a kid, he isn't going to find that old crap interesting.”

 

Seeing his father's derisive face, Dirk mimicked it. “Yeah,” he agreed. Then, hesitating, “That's why it's so good to fall asleep to, though. So old and dull.”

 

Dave rolled his eyes, reaching over to ruffle his son's hair. “Night, brat.” He looked to Rose. “Are you coming to the meeting with me?”

 

“I told you I am,” she replied. “I just wanted to put Dirk to bed first. You know he has trouble falling asleep when we're not here.”

 

“No I don't!” he cried. “I'm brave! You can go on without me, I'll be fine.”

 

“See?” Dave smirked. “C'mon, let's go!”

 

Rose sighed. “Alright, alright. Go on, I'll meet you out front.”

 

Dave left without once looking back at the pairs of eyes that lingered after him, one set violet, one orange.

 

Dirk spoke in a small voice. “I told you I'm fine. You don't have to wait up with me.”

 

Rose stared at the door another moment before looking back at the little boy laying in the lavish, violet blankets. She smiled at him tenderly, reaching out to card her fingers through his hair. “I know. You're a very brave, grown up boy. I just wanted to stay behind for myself. I get scared myself sometimes, you know.”

 

He tried to scowl, but he faltered. She leaned in to kiss him. “Goodnight, Dirk. Be sure to tend to Roxy if she wakes up. I hate to leave when she's been having such fitful sleep, but...”

 

“I can handle it.”

 

Rose smiled. “Yes. I know you can.”

 

She got up to leave, but just as she was about to shut the door, “Rose?”

 

She turned back to him. “Mm?”

 

He hesitated, wringing the edge of the comforter in his tiny hands. “How does it end?”

 

It took her a moment to figure out what he was referring to. “ _Hamlet_?” Dirk nodded. “That's all that happens. Hamlet dies. There's some other insignificant dialogue afterwards, but for the most part, the play ends there.”

 

Dirk frowned. “But that's sad.”

 

“He _did_ fulfill his duties, though, didn't he?”

 

“But that's still sad, that he died.”

 

Rose smiled wanly. “Not all endings are happy, Dirk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I can't believe it's over. You know, I wrote this fic over a two month period; the bulk was written during my winter break, and the final chapters were completed in June when I got home from college. (i didn't write at all when school was in session. No time.) So even though it's been weeks since I wrote the last chapter, I feel like I'm experiencing the satisfaction and emotional drain of having finished this fic all over again.
> 
> Thank you so much, to all of you who read this fic!! Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope I see you when the sequel hits Ao3. :) Unfortunately, things are not going as I planned, and I don't think you'll see any sign of the sequel for a month in the least. In any case, it stars Roxy, and not only gives us a peek into her and Dirk's childhood, but elaborates on the political warfront in Derse, and what happens to Dirk's family and followers after he disappears... (As well as what happens with Meenah after the events of this fic.)
> 
> Thanks for all of your support! If you have any questions/comments/critiques, don't be shy, I'm pretty much always online! :)


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